THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY   A 
OF  CALIFORtfl 
LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


DEAD  YESTERDAY 

MARY   AGNES    HAMILTON 


DEAD 
YESTERDAY 


AUTHOR   OF  "LESS   THAN   THE   DUST,"  "YES" 
ETC.,  ETC. 


"Unborn  To-morrow  and  Dead  Yesterday, 
Why  fret  about  them  ..." 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE    H.   DORAN   COMPANY 


Copyright,  1916, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


FEINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


DEAD  YESTERDAY 


2041958 


DEAD 
YESTERDAY 


CHAPTER  ONE 

LONDON  in  August  is  a  mistake, "  said  Ned  Coventry, 
relighting  his  pipe  as  he  stretched  himself  in  a  yet  more 
comfortable  attitude  in  the  deep  armchair  and  moved 
his  glass  within  easier  reach. 

No  one  seemed  disposed  to  take  up  so  obvious  a  truism. 
Gertrude  Fenner,  curled  up  on  the  floor,  was  turning  over  the 
pages  of  a  weekly  with  contempt  on  her  expressive  face.  She 
was  a  small,  dark  creature,  with  angry  eyes  and  a  petulant,  un- 
happy mouth. 

"London's  always  a  mistake,"  she  said.  "I  suppose  you'd 
say  Berlin  is  better,  Mallard?"  She  glanced  at  a  pale  under- 
sized young  man,  with  large  gold  spectacles  and  a  bulging  fore- 
head, seated  on  the  window-sill,  his  dangling  short  legs  showing 
large  ugly  boots  and  rumpled  socks  above  them. 

Mallard  Floss  did  not  reply,  and  Gertrude  returned  to  her 
paper. 

Although  all  the  windows  were  open,  the  air  outside  was 
hot  and  breathless:  over  the  room  clouds  of  pipe  and  cigarette 
smoke  hung  thick.  Across  the  dull  roar  of  London  and  the 
sharper  sounds  of  the  horns  of  taxis  speeding  along  Fleet  Street, 
came  the  boom  of  a  distant  clock.  Half-past  eleven.  No  one 
stirred.  They  knew  each  other  too  well,  these  half-dozen,  and 
met  too  constantly  to  make  social  exertions  at  any  time,  and 
on  this  particular  evening  no  one  seemed  in  the  mood  for 
talk. 

The  evening  had  begun  with  a  play.  The  play  had  been  a 
failure.  Every  one  had  been  bored.  Each  member  of  the 
party,  irritated  with  the  others  for  their  share  in  an  occasion 

7 


8  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

which  had  not  come  off,  refused  to  make  the  effort  to  appear 
pleased  which  alone  could  have  saved  it.  Leaving  the  theatre 
in  the  middle  of  the  third  Act,  quite  regardless  of  the  discomfort 
of  the  other  occupants  of  the  pit,  they  had  straggled  out  into  the 
smelly  Strand  and  paused  on  the  pavement,  under  a  livid  sky, 
in  doubt  as  to  what  to  do  next.  They  were  bored  with  one 
another;  but  no  one  seemed  able  to  break  up  the  party  and  go 
home.  Finally  Nigel  Strode  had  suggested  drinks  in  his  rooms 
in  the  Temple,  whither  they  had  adjourned,  only  to  relapse 
there  into  a  silence  punctuated  by  occasional  trivial  remarks. 

Chris  Bampton,  a  fair  girl  with  glasses,  sitting  at  one  end 
of  the  sofa,  stretched  out  a  hand,  murmuring,  "Cigarettes." 
The  young  man  at  the  other  end  passed  the  box,  lit  and  held  out 
a  match  without  altering  his  own  comfortable  position.  The 
sharp  light  showed  a  face  smooth,  unlined,  clean-shaven,  that 
offered  few  indications  of  type  beyond  the  obvious  English 
public  school  and  university:  or  of  age,  save  that  a  slight 
thickening  of  the  jaw  and  pressure  about  the  lips  suggested  that 
Nigel  Strode  was  not  so  young  as  his  fair  face  and  childlike 
eyes  made  him  appear  to  a  casual  glance. 

Gertrude  Fenner  suddenly  threw  her  paper  on  the  ground. 

"Poor  stuff,  isn't  it?"  she  said,  looking  round.  "I  don't 
think,  Nigel,  you're  much  of  a  journalist. " 

Nigel  only  smiled. 

"You'd  like  to  be  our  dramatic  critic,  wouldn't  you?"  he 
said  easily. 

Gertrude  frowned,  half  closing  her  long  prominent  eyes, 
and  pushing  forward  her  underhung  jaw.  She  did  not  look 
English;  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  her  parents,  whom  none  of  her 
friends  had  seen,  and  whom  she  never  mentioned,  were  well- 
to-do  retired  tradespeople  in  Lancaster.  Gertrude  had  left  them 
to  go  on  the  stage.  She  acted  very  badly,  and  after  a  few  years 
spent  in  doing  old  ladies  on  tour,  she  had,  thanks  to  an  acci- 
dental conversation  in  a  railway  dining  saloon,  secured  the 
post  of  theatrical  dress  critic  to  a  syndicate  supplying  suburban 
and  provincial  papers.  By  this  means  she  made  a  somewhat 
precarious  living. 

"I  could  do  a  better  column  than  this  stuff  on  'Magdalena' 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  9 

anyhow,"  she  jerked  out.  "The  idea  of  talking  of  Royal 
Carrington  as  a  seer!" 

"Oh,  but,"  interposed  Ned  Coventry,  sitting  up,  "that  ar- 
ticle is  rich;  isn't  it  there  that  they  talk  of  the  'note  of  holiness' 
in  Carrington's  stuff?" 

"Yes,"  said  Gertrude  scornfully,  picking  up  the  discarded 
paper  and  turning  over  the  leaves. 

"Something  'devout  and  beautiful,  which  leaves  on  the 
mind  of  the  spectator  a  profound  impression  of  the  mighty 
forces  at  work  in  human  life. '  '  Devout  and  beautiful, '  indeed! " 

The  others  joined  in  Coventry's  laugh,  though  Gertrude 
continued  to  look  savage. 

"It's  wonderful,"  he  cried,  "when  one  thinks  of  Royal  Car- 
rington as  we  know  him,  blaspheming  against  everything  in 
heaven  and  earth  over  too  much  champagne;  talking  so  inde- 
cently that  it  even  makes  me  blush;  an  atheist  without  a  belief 
in  God  or  man  or  anything  except  his  own  technique  and  its 
£  s.  d.  equivalent.  And  it's  not  only  the  New  World.  I  saw 
another  serious  critique  which  noted  how  frequently  the  word 
'holy'  occurs  in  his  work." 

"  Did  he  write  the  review  himself,  Nigel?  "  said  Chris  Bampton. 

Nigel  shook  his  head. 

"Oh,  no;  it's  quite  genuine." 

Dulness  again  descended.  It  was  broken  by  the  sudden 
entry  of  another  young  man:  a  tall,  thin,  angular  creature, 
black  haired  and  hot.  His  appearance  produced  a  faint  stir. 
Every  one  looked  up. 

"Hullo,  Jimmy — any  news?"  ejaculated  Gertrude  Fenner, 
her  brow  smoothening. 

"Whiskey  and  soda  on  the  side  table,"  murmured  Nigel. 

Jimmy — otherwise  the  Honourable  Gervase  O'Connor — 
acted  on  the  hint. 

"News?"  he  said,  quickly  accepting  the  character.  "No, 
nothing  much.  But  I've  saved  you  all  from  something.  Met 
Wellesley  Drew  outside.  He  wanted,  as  far  as  I  could  make 
out — he  was  hopelessly  tight  and  not  alone — to  come  up.  I 
put  him " 

"Alone?"  queried  Gertrude. 


10  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

"Yes,  alone — into  a  taxi  and  told  the  man  to  take  him  home. 
I  expect  Lois  'd  be  glad  to  see  him! " 

"Oh,  Lois,  she  wouldn't  be  at  home,"  murmured  Ned 
Coventry. 

Jimmy  glanced  at  him  quickly — he  was  the  ideal  civil 
servant  in  appearance,  distinguished  mainly  by  his  perfect 
boots — and  laughed. 

"Drew  told  me  something  rather  funny,"  he  went  on. 
"Wilmot's  done  it  again." 

"Oh,  Lord, "  groaned  Nigel.     " Same  lady? " 

Jimmy  laughed;  he  laughed  constantly,  but  apparently 
more  from  a  nervous  habit  than  from  genuine  mirth. 

"  Doesn't  sound  like  her  from  Drew's  description.  He  met 
them  in  Paris.  Drew  swears  she's  Lady  Lucilla  something  or 
other,  so  Wilmot's  Toryism  seems  to  be  taking  shape.  He  really 
has  shaken  off  the  Fabian  dust  this  time. " 

"Leaves  that  to  Mrs.  Wilmot,"  sighed  Mallard  Floss. 

Nigel  Strode  got  up  and  moved  towards  the  window. 

"They're  all  open,  Nigel,"  cried  Chris  Bampton. 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Jimmy  refilled  his  glass,  empty- 
ing the  siphon,  which  emitted  a  pathetic  squeak. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Nigel  slowly,  as  if  he  had  been  think- 
ing hard,  "  I  believe  in  the  end  that  vice  is  really  more  tedious 
than  anything  else. " 

"Of  course  it  is,"  cried  Jimmy,  turning  round.  His  quick 
indistinct  utterance  and  rather  loud  voice  contrasted  strongly 
with  the  dropping  softness  with  which  Nigel's  words  came  out. 
"It's  the  most  boring  thing  there  is.  I  don't  know  what  one's 
to  do."  He  stared  at  the  company  in  fierce  interrogation. 
"There's  simply  nothing  left." 

The  girl  on  the  sofa  emitted  a  yawn. 

"All  right,  Chris!"  Jimmy  turned  on  her.  "We're  all 
in  the  same  boat. " 

"It's  the  weather,"  sighed  Mallard  Floss. 

"Good  heavens,  Floss!"  Jimmy  shouted,  "how  super- 
ficial you  civil  servants  are!  For  twenty  days,  more  or  less, 
the  sun  has  shone  on  us  and  the  sky's  been  like  brass — even  at 
midnight  it's  like  purple  brass.  The  heat  melts  one's  bones 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  11 

and  makes  one  ache  for  happiness.  And  yet,  we're  bored! 
It's  in  us,  the  poison,  not  in  the  thermometer. " 

Nigel  looked  up. 

"Ache  for  happiness?  Yes.  But  surely  an  unsatisfied 
want  is  boring. " 

"If  I  had  a  real  want  I  should  be  excited,"  Jimmy  almost 
screamed.  "  Hunger  isn't  boring :  but  none  of  us  has  ever  felt  it. 
I  don't  mean  a  vague  emptiness.  That's  our  case;  there's  all 
the  difference  in  the  world.  We're  bored,  bored  stiff.  I'm 
twenty-six:  I'm  tired  of  all  the  people  I  know  and  all  the  things 
I  do.  Eating  doesn't  excite  me:  drinking  doesn't."  He 
emptied  his  glass  angrily.  "I'm  sick  of  falling  in  love,  and  still 
more  sick  of  falling  out  of  it.  I  never  want  to  go  to  a  music- 
hall  again,  and  as  for  night  clubs!  .  .  .  Respectability  is 
worse.  I  went  to  a  respectable  dance  this  evening  and  came 
away  simply  suffocated  with  tedium.  When  I'm  alone  I  want 
to  blow  my  brains  out,  and  when  I'm  with  other  people  I  want 
to  blow  out  theirs — except  that  even  that's  not  worth  the 
trouble. " 

Nigel  laughed. 

"You  want  too  much,"  he  murmured.  "I  don't  cull  that 
boredom.  It's  mania.  .  .  .  Now,  I  am  really  bored:  there 
isn't  anything  I  want. " 

Jimmy  glared  at  him. 

"I  want  excitement,  you  want  comfort — that's  because 
I'm  under  thirty  and  you're  over  it. " 

No  one  said  anything  for  a  minute  or  two.  Then  Gertrude 
Fenner  uncurled  herself  and,  rising  to  her  feet  and  stretching 
out  her  arms,  cried — 

"I  wish  something  would  happen  and  end  us  all — an  earth- 
quake or  a  flood." 

"Oh,  no!"  interpolated  Mallard  Floss.  "Think  of  all  the 
mess." 

Jimmy  gave  a  guffaw. 

"I  believe  that  if  the  world  were  only  tidy  you'd  be  content, 
Mallard:  well-regulated  weather,  even  temperature,  clean 
streets,  paper-baskets  and  pigeon-holes  everywhere.  You're 
a  Webb-ite,  after  all,  you  know.  That  world  would  be  only  one 


12  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

I  can  conceive  worse  than  this.     For  there's  still  chance:  it 
may  do  something  for  one,  one  day!" 

"You  are  young,  Jimmy,"  said  Ned  Coventry. 

Jimmy  stamped. 

"Young?  Of  course  I'm  young.  Being  young,  I  tell  you, 
only  makes  it  worse.  If  you  weren't  a  civil  servant,  stifled 
in  your  own  security,  you'd  know  that.  But  Nigel's  really 
just  as  bad — we're  typical,  he  and  I.  If  he's  more  torpid  about 
it,  that's  only  because  he's  English,  and,  thank  God,  I'm  not. 
Otherwise  we're  all  in  the  same  boat.  So's  Gertrude,  so's  Chris. 
So  are  all  the  others.  The  married  people  are  worse.  They 
put  it  off  on  to  one  another  because  they've  mortgaged  their 
hypothetical  chances;  but  it's  there,  everywhere.  Scratch 
any  intellectual  and  you'll  find  him  weeping  with  ennui." 

Silence  followed  this  sweeping  assertion.  No  one  seemed 
prepared  to  argue  with  Jimmy.  Nor  was  he  far  wrong  in  feel- 
ing, as  he  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  that  none  of  them  dared 
openly  agree  with  him.  They  pretended  to  be  afraid  of  nothing, 
they  and  their  set :  they  had  a  passion  for  dragging  things  usually 
left  in  dark  corners  out  into  the  light  of  casual  discourse;  but 
there  were  things  they  did  not  want  to  see.  Not  because  they 
were  not  true;  rather  because  they  were.  Jimmy  wondered 
where  Hugh  Infield  was.  He  would  have  suffered  from  no  such 
squeamishness,  and  he  was  probably  less  tainted  with  boredom 
than  any  of  them.  In  the  intent  to  utter  some  of  these  reflec- 
tions, Jimmy  opened  his  mouth,  but  thought  better  of  it  and 
emptied  his  glass  instead. 

It  was  Nigel  who  at  last  took  up  the  word. 

"I  believe  Coventry's  right,"  he  said.  Every  one  looked 
at  Ned,  who,  deep  in  his  chair,  had  said  nothing  for  a  long  time. 
He  gave^no  sign  of  life  and  Nigel  went  on,  "It's  London.  The 
way  we  live.  The  machinery  of  existence  has  got  so  complicated 
that  the  individual  has  no  chance. " 
"Here,  here,"  from  Mallard  Floss. 

"Everybody,  metaphorically,  and  most  people  quite  liter- 
ally, is  only  making  a  part  of  a  pin.  We're  utterly  removed 
from  real  things.  In  the  country  it's  different.  There  people 
are  quiet  and  happy." 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  13 

This  was  too  much  for  Jimmy. 

"Oh,  bosh!"  he  cried.  "In  the  country  they're  rotting  in 
apathy.  You've  never  been  there  except  for  intellectual  week- 
ends and  walking  tours.  In  the  country  there's  nobody  with 
a  spark  of  life:  those  that  had  one,  once,  have  long  ago  come 
up  to  town.  The  others  may  be  quiet,  but  they're  certainly 
not  happy.  Unless  you'd  argue  that  a  turnip  is  happy." 

"Yes,  Nigel,"  Gertrude  agreed.  "It's  really  time  you 
got  off  to  Italy.  Evidently  you  need  a  holiday  shockingly! 
I  expect  an  article  on  '  The  Return  to  Nature '  in  next  week's 
New  World.  I  really  do." 

Jimmy  was  moving  up  and  down  the  room,  and  his  rest- 
lessness gradually  infected  the  others,  who  began  to  give 
hints  of  departure.  He  stood  for  a  moment  looking  out  of 
the  window.  Then  he  turned  and  addressed  them  all,  pointing 
with  his  finger  to  Nigel. 

" New  World"  he  cried,  in  an  accent  of  accumulated  scorn. 
"That's  the  lie  he  lives  on — is  there  any  wonder  he's  a  sen- 
timentalist? Oh,  yes,  you  are,  Nigel!  There  isn't  any  New 
World:  it's  old,  far  too  old.  That's  the  root  of  it  all.  We're 
too  old.  We're  effete.  We're  decadent,  like  the  people  under 
the  Roman  Empire.  You  can't  be  the  heir  of  all  the  ages 
on  any  other  terms.  We've  no  future:  we're  the  slaves  of 
our  past.  Every  emotion  has  been  felt  a  million  times  and 
expressed  a  thousand.  That's  why  we've  no  poets  and  no 
painters.  Above  all,  no  men.  Isn't  it  so,  Hugh?  You're  a 
philosopher.  I  appeal  to  you." 

A  man  who  at  the  first  glance  looked  at  least  ten  years 
older  than  any  of  the  others  had  come  in  and  stood  now  just 
inside  the  doorway,  inspecting  the  company,  through  the 
dense  haze  of  smoke,  with  an  air  in  which  shyness  and  hu- 
morous contempt  were  oddly  mingled.  Tall,  with  heavy 
stooping  shoulders,  his  grizzled  hair  rumpled  and  his  spec- 
tacles pushed  up  on  his  forehead  while  he  shielded  his  eyes 
from  the  strong  light,  Hugh  Infield  looked  as  if  he  belonged 
not  only  to  another  generation  from  that  of  these  young  men 
and  women,  but  to  another  world.  Yet  he  had  for  the  last 
year  shared  rooms  in  the  Temple  with  Nigel  Strode,  who  was 


14  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

essentially  of  their  world,  indeed  its  centre.  The  arrange- 
ment was  a  standing  subject  of  discussion  with  the  other 
members  of  Nigel's  set,  coming  up  perennially  when  newer 
topics  failed.  Jimmy  O'Connor,  who  had  an  explanation 
for  everything,  had  once  said,  in  a  moment  of  irritation  against 
Nigel,  that  Hugh  was  the  sort  of  man  who,  if  he  had  mar- 
ried, would  certainly  have  had  a  silly,  smart  wife:  and  that 
Nigel  did  instead.  It  was  characteristic  of  the  atmosphere 
of  the  set  that  though  they  all  liked  Nigel  every  one  had  laughed 
delightedly  and  no  one  had  repudiated  the  analogy.  At  any 
rate,  Nigel  lived  with  Hugh,  not  Hugh  with  Nigel.  The 
rooms  were  Hugh's;  had  been  Hugh's  since  any  of  his  friends 
knew  him.  All  that  time,  too,  he  had  worked  among  vases 
in  the  British  Museum,  and  gone  abroad  for  his  holidays. 
He  had  a  strange  liking  for  foreigners,  and  a  vast  knowledge 
of  their  literatures;  but  it  was  very  hard  to  get  him  to  admit 
that  he  knew  anything.  There  had  once  been  a  legend  that 
he  had  been  a  foreign  correspondent  of  The  Times  and  had 
given  it  up  because  he  disapproved  of  their  policy.  The  story 
if  not  true  was  intrinsically  credible:  Hugh  professed  the 
utmost  contempt  for  all  idealisms,  but  stories  of  quixotic 
behaviour  on  his  part  leaked  out  from  time  to  time.  That 
he  could  talk  if  he  chose  was  proved  by  the  fact  that  Nigel 
sometimes  "talked  Infield" — unless  this  were  another  of 
Jimmy's  libels. 

"What  are  you  appealing  to  me  about?"  he  asked,  as 
Jimmy  reiterated  his  question. 

Nigel  explained  that  Jimmy  was  attacking  civilisation. 

"He's  proved  to  his  own  satisfaction  that  it  implies  de- 
cadence," he  smiled.  "We're  over-civilised,  according  to  him." 

"Over-civilised?"  said  Hugh.  "We're  not  civilised  at 
all.  We're  in  a  wretched  transition  stage  between  savages 
who  live  for  the  satisfaction  of  simple  instinctive  wants  and 
intelligent  beings  who  pursue  truth." 

"Simple  instinctive  wants,"  cried  Jimmy,  clapping  his 
hands.  "  Thereyou  are, Nigel,  we're  savages  after  all,  you  and  I ! " 

Nigel  looked  his  surprise. 

"I  thought  you  said  you  didn't  want  anything?"  he  re- 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  15 

marked.    "That's  what  I  agreed  with  you  about,  I  thought." 

Jimmy  relit  his  pipe,  as  if  happily  preparing  to  start  the 
whole  argument  over  again.  Inconsistency  did  not  worry  him. 

"Ah — but  we  want  to  want,  don't  you  see?  We  can't, 
but  we  want  to.  ...  Truth — there's  no  such  thing;  one's 
own  desires  are  all  the  solid  truth  there  is;  eh,  Infield?" 

Infield,  standing  with  his  back  to  the  mantelpiece,  seemed 
to  have  no  intention  of  saying  any  more;  feeling  Jimmy's 
eyes  upon  him  he  smiled,  but  that  was  all.  Jimmy  meantime 
worked  it  out  for  himself. 

"And  wanting  to  feel  implies  that  the  instinctive  busi- 
ness has  stopped  working;  we  have  to  apply  more  and  more 
violent  stimuli.  And  they  bore  us,  in  time." 

"That's  about  it,"  Hugh  acquiesced. 

"What's  left  to  us,  then?"  said  Nigel. 

"To  a  generation  tired  of  life?"  said  Hugh.  "Surely, 
it's  obvious."  He  paused.  Then  as  the  others  still  looked 
to  him  he  gave  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders. 

"Death,"  he  said.    "That's  all." 

Chris  Bampton  got  up  from  her  sofa. 

"Oh,  dear,"  she  said,  "this  is  very  gloomy.  Gertrude, 
let's  go  home." 

Gertrude's  sombre  eyes  were  fixed  on  Hugh.  She  gave  a 
little  start. 

"It's  frightfully  interesting,"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  cried  Jimmy  exultantly,  "you've  done  it,  now, 
Gertrude.  That's  our  motto,  our  rubric,  our  epitaph.  Death 
is  'frightfully  interesting.'  My  God!" 

He  laughed  and  swung,  still  laughing,  out  of  the  room. 

The  others  followed.  Hugh  Infield  dropped  into  the 
deep  chair  that  Ned  Coventry  had  vacated,  while  Nigel  saw 
the  company  out.  Hugh  had  not  changed  his  position — 
legs  extended,  hands  deep  sunk  in  his  pockets,  chin  on  his 
chest — when  the  other  returned  with  letters  in  his  hand. 

"Do  you  know,"  Nigel  said,  as  he  threw  the  envelopes 
— the  letters  were  all  for  him — neatly  into  the  paper-basket  one 
by  one.  "I  sometimes  think  that  we,"  he  craned  his  head  to 
indicate  his  departed  friends,  "see  too  much  of  one  another." 


16  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

Hugh  laughed. 

"I  should  find  it  intolerable,"  he  said.  "But  I  always 
imagined  you  had  a  much  larger  charity.  By  the  by,  where 
was  Myrtle?" 

Nigel  did  not  at  once  reply.  He  was  tearing  a  letter  into 
very  small  fragments,  which  he  then  dropped,  bit  by  bit, 
into  the  basket.  Then  he  straightened  the  rumpled  hearth- 
rug with  his  foot  and  removed  two  glasses  from  their  dan- 
gerous proximity  to  Hugh's  feet. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  at  last. 

Hugh  relit  his  pipe. 

"Tired  of  her,  too?"  he  said  between  long  puffs. 

Nigel  turned  and  looked  down  at  him. 

"It's  off,"  he  said  shortly. 

Hugh  did  not  show  any  surprise,  nor  did  he  for  some  time 
make  any  remark.  Then,  raising  his  head,  he  found  Nigel 
still  looking  at  him  with  something  almost  pathetic  in  his 
blue  eyes;  the  eyes  of  an  inquiring  child. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Hugh,  answering  them.  "I  hoped  you 
didn't  mind.  .  .  .  She  doesn't,  somehow,  seem  that  sort." 

Nigel  still  looked  at  him. 

"No,"  he  said  slowly.  "She  isn't.  .  .  .  She  never  was. 
And  I  don't.  Don't  mind,  I  mean.  But  that's  the  worst 
of  it.  .  .  .  I'm  getting  old." 

His  eyes  widened  and  the  corners  of  his  mouth  bent  down 
almost  as  though  he  were  going  to  cry. 

"Not  you,"  said  Hugh.  "All  you  want  is  a  holiday.  Italy 
will  cure  you." 

A  sudden  crooked  smile  gave  Nigel  back  his  boyish  air; 
but  it  passed  swiftly  as  he  shook  his  head. 

"Mo,  no.  Gervase  was  right.  I've  lost  my  interest  in 
everything.  Nothing  seems  real.  Nothing  matters.  I  don't 
feel  as  if  I  could  care  about  any  one;  not  even  about  myself. 
And  yet"— he  smiled  again,  wistfully— "all  the  time  I  know, 
I  know,  that  unless  one  cares,  life  is  a  wilderness." 

Hugh  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Perhaps  it  is,"  he  said.    "  But— here  we  are." 


CHAPTER  TWO 

AT  first  there  seemed  no  way  of  getting  in.  The  casa — 
Nigel  Strode  supposed  they  would  call  it  a  casa,  his 
Italian  did  not  get  much  farther  than  that — was  perched 
high  above  the  road,  on  the  crest  of  a  steep  bank  covered 
with  vines,  on  which  thick  clustered  fruit  was  slowly  ripen- 
ing. Nigel  followed  the  muddy  winding  track  to  which  the 
road  had  degenerated,  passed  through  an  open  gate,  hang- 
ing slack  on  a  broken  hinge,  and  wandered  round  a  series 
of  empty  stalls  and  deserted-looking  out-houses  without 
discovering  any  sign  of  life.  There  was  no  "approach,"  un- 
less he  had  taken  a  wrong  turn  somewhere.  The  lower  row  of 
windows  was  closed  and  shuttered,  but  above  he  espied  two 
that  were  open. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon.  Mrs.  Leonard  was  prob- 
ably asleep.  To  call  attention  to  his  presence  by  shouting, 
and  perhaps  rudely  awakening  her,  would  not  be  a  favour- 
able introduction  to  an  unknown  lady  on  whom  he  wished 
to  make  an  impression. 

After  all,  there  was  no  hurry.  Leaving  Florence  in  the 
morning  he  had  been  accompanied  by  a  sense  of  something 
vaguely  adventurous.  It  had  grown  as  he  walked  slowly 
up  from  Montevarchi,  along  silent  empty  roads,  through 
chestnuts  and  olives  and  up  among  the  vines,  meeting  noth- 
ing but  a  somnolent  oil-cart  drawn  by  splendid  white  oxen. 
On  the  voiceless  house  it  seemed  now  to  concentrate,  this 
sense,  so  that  there  was  a  pleasure  in  the  arrest  which  let 
it  all  sink  in.  The  air  had,  all  day,  been  still,  with  a  held 
stillness,  as  if  it  waited  and  watched.  A  faint  mist  blurred 

17 


18  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

the  tops  of  the  blue  hills,  pale  on  the  horizon,  and  hung  over 
their  grey-green  slopes.  Nigel  had  felt  the  atmosphere  of 
the  place  like  a  restraining  hand  laid  upon  his  impatience, 
and  had  walked  up  with  a  leisurely  pace  not  normal  with  him. 
The  more  he  wanted  to  reach  the  casa,  the  more  everything 
seemed  to  say  "tarry,"  to  hold  him  back — from  one  more 
eagerly  anticipated  disappointment? 

Would  she  disappoint  him,  Aurelia  Leonard?  The  slen- 
der basis  of  his  expectation  suggested  that  she  must.  After 
all,  he  knew  next  to  nothing  about  her.  There  were  her  books, 
which,  with  what  Hugh  Infield  always  regarded  as  a  deplor- 
able want  of  curiosity,  Nigel  had  never  read.  They  con- 
stituted, of  course,  her  admitted  claim  to  be  interesting; 
but  Nigel  had  a  general  conviction  that  authors  were  more 
interesting  than  their  works,  which  he  had  never  impaired 
by  wide  experiment.  Hugh  thought  the  books  wonderful, 
but  Nigel  had  gathered,  even  from  Hugh,  that  there  was 
more  in  Mrs.  Leonard  than  that,  and  his  very  reticence  as 
to  what,  in  particular,  it  was  had  irritated  him  more  than 
once.  Not  that  he  would  have  expected  Hugh  to  be  able 
to  tell  him  what  she  was  like,  even  if  he  had  been  willing  to 
try;  Hugh  was  no  use  about  people.  Connection  with  Hugh 
merely  created  a  presumption  that  Mrs.  Leonard  would  be 
dowdy — and  if  Nigel  had  a  deep  certainty  that  she  was  not, 
he  was  at  a  loss  to  explain  whence  it  arose. 

There  was  also  the  connection,  discovered  by  accident, 
and  to  his  considerable  surprise,  with  Lady  Toller;  it  was 
difficult  to  say  what  that  suggested.  Lady  Toller,  though 
a  friend  of  twenty  years'  standing,  had  not  thrown  much 
light.  But  then  she  never  did.  She  lived  in  the  reflected 
radiance  of  her  husband  and  daughters;  they  had  long  ago 
extinguished  any  of  her  own.  And  they  apparently  did 
not  know  Mrs.  Leonard,  except  as  an  author.  Sir  An- 
thony, of  course,  could  not  read  her:  he  hated  "diffi- 
cult" novels;  Myrtle  would  not.  She  was  busy  safe- 
guarding her  own  point  of  view  and  had  evolved  a  theory 
that  reading  was  a  mistake,  especially  with  authors  of 
a  strong  personality  such  as,  every  one  seemed  to  agree,  Au- 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  19 

relia  Leonard  possessed,  if  any  one  in  the  world.  It 
was  nearness  to  that  strong  personality,  in  some  one  who 
also  owned  a  name  so  melodious  and  so  suggestive  of 
further  beauties,  that  made  the  thing  an  adventure  for 
Nigel.  Whether  personality  could  be  predicated  of  him- 
self was  a  question  that  sometimes  worried  him;  and 
now,  as  he  stood  uncertain,  outside  the  house,  he  suddenly 
wondered  whether  he  really  did  desire  to  come  into  con- 
tact with  an  undoubted  case  of  it.  Was  the  failure  to  find 
the  door  perhaps  symbolic?  Should  he  accept  the  warning 
and  turn  back? 

He  began  to  walk  slowly  round  the  walls  again.  Ab- 
sorbed in  his  question  he  almost  ran,  as  he  turned,  into  a 
red-kerchiefed  woman  who  had  come  out — whence  he  could 
not  guess — with  a  pitcher  in  her  hand. 

Nigel  summoned  his  uncertain  Italian  to  inquire  whether 
this  were  the  abode  of  Mrs.  Leonard?  Oh,  yes.  And  was 
Mrs.  Leonard  at  home?  She  was  not  sure:  but  would  the 
signer  come  in?  He  followed  her  through  the  thickly  and 
variously  obstructed  yard,  along  a  tiled  path  that,  passing 
under  a  little  archway,  suddenly  became  a  flight  of  steps  up  to 
a  door.  The  door  opened,  gave  on  to  a  dim  cool  passage,  tiled 
again,  and  full  of  a  sweet  elusive  smell.  The  woman  shuffled 
along  in  front  of  Nigel  and,  showing  him  into  the  sala  at  the  end, 
bade  him,  if  he  understood  what  she  rapidly  poured  out,  to 
wait  while  she  searched  for  the  signora. 

It  proved  to  be  a  long  wait;  but  Nigel,  after  deciding  that 
Mrs.  Leonard  must  in  fact  be  out,  found  himself  sufficiently  oc- 
cupied in  trying  to  take  in  all  the  indications  that  the  room 
offered  him.  It  was  large,  and  seemed  larger  from  its  cool  emp- 
tiness. There  were  three  open  windows,  one  at  the  end  opposite 
to  the  door,  the  other  two  at  the  side  looking  over  the  garden: 
windows  that  reached  almost  to  the  ceiling,  while  their  low  deep 
sills  were  but  a  few  inches  from  the  ground.  Three  shallow 
stone  steps  enabled  one  to  step  out  into  the  garden.  It  was 
thence,  from  the  ranks  of  lavender,  from  the  rows  of  pinks, 
above  all  from  the  little  lemon  trees  in  pots  that  stood  just  below 
the  windows,  that  the  fragrance  rose  which  Nigel  had  felt  as 


20  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

he  entered  the  house,  and  which  filled  the  sala,  furnishing  it  in 
the  absence  of  other  decoration .  On  a  round  table  in  the  centre  of 
the  room  stood  a  bowl  of  pink  carnations,  their  colour  reflected 
in  the  bare  polished  wood;  nothing  else.  Round  the  white- 
washed walls,  on  the  shiny  red  stone  floor,  various  straight- 
backed  chairs  were  ranged:  chairs  of  no  pretensions  to  modern 
comfort  or  elegance,  covered  in  faded  leather.  Along  one  wall 
ran  a  low  bookcase,  and  under  the  further  window  was  a  cane 
chaise-longue:  beside  it  a  smaller  table,  on  which  lay  several 
newspapers,  a  volume  of  Jean  Christophe  with  a  paper-cutter 
stuck  in  about  three  quarters  through  it,  and  a  spectacle-case. 

The  spectacle-case  was  the  most  personal  thing  in  the  room; 
but  it  did  not  help  Nigel  to  fit  his  new  impressions  in  with  his 
old.  On  the  contrary  it  gave  him  a  twinge,  a  revival  of  the 
impulse  to  turn  and  flee.  After  all,  Mrs.  Leonard  had  known 
Lady  Toller  for  twenty  years:  she  had  a  daughter  just  leaving 
Newnham:  she  might  well  wear  spectacles.  The  drawing — 
the  only  thing  of  the  kind  in  the  room — framed  in  black  and 
leaning  against  the  wall  above  the  bookcase,  might  perhaps  be 
the  daughter.  Nigel  moved  over  to  look  at  it,  and  stayed  long. 
It  was  a  profile  head,  very  lightly  and  firmly  drawn.  The  face 
was  not  strictly  beautiful,  and  Nigel  hardly  wondered,  as  he 
looked,  whether  the  daughter  resembled  the  mother:  he  did  not 
clothe  the  girl  with  any  individuality.  The  alert  poise  of  the 
head,  the  direct  gaze  of  the  eyes,  the  parted  lips,  the  jutting 
chin — all  that  was  simply  youth  incarnate:  youth  with  its 
splendid  eagerness  and  sureness,  its  almost  cruel  calm. 

It  was  with  a  sigh  that  he  at  last  turned  away,  and,  moving 
back  to  the  window,  stared  across  the  charming,  formal  garden 
to  where  the  sweeping  lines  of  the  blue  hills  rose  now  clear 
above  the  mist-wreathed  valley.  It  was  always  there,  the  world 
outside,  alien  even  here  where  such  beauty  clothed  it;  forcing 
home,  in  its  contrast,  the  sense  of  personal  weakness  and  inade- 
quacy. Only  in  the  morning  of  life,  standing  like  that  girl  on 
the  threshold,  ignorant  of  all  but  the  glow  within,  could  one 
challenge  and  meet  it,  feel  it  unreal  and  the  self  real.  The  weari- 
ness of  past  emotions  swept  over  Nigel  for  a  moment. 

Only  for  a  moment :  these  things  never  held  him  long.     Now, 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  21 

too,  his  mood  underwent  a  sharp  change,  for  beyond  the  rose 
hedge  that  made  the  division  between  the  garden  proper  and 
the  rows  of  vines  he  saw  something  moving.  At  first  he  thought 
it  was  no  more  than  a  point  of  wavering  light ;  then  he  decided 
that  it  was  a  white  sunshade.  He  withdrew  a  little  further 
into  the  room,  that  unseen  he  might  continue  to  see.  Slowly 
the  white  object  took  form:  it  was  a  lady  with  a  book  under 
her  arm  and  in  her  hand  a  white  parasol  lined  with  green.  She 
advanced  with  a  leisurely  pace,  as  though  deep  in  thought; 
Nigel  fancied,  though  she  was  still  too  far  off  to  be  seen  dis- 
tinctly, that  her  eyes  were  on  the  ground.  At  the  rose  hedge 
she  paused,  bent  down  to  smell  a  full-blown  white  rose, 
and  then,  with  a  kind  of  grave  deliberation,  picked  it  and  came 
on,  holding  it  in  her  hand  and  occasionally  smelling  it,  along  the 
walk,  between  the  pinks  and  lavender,  past  the  well  with  its 
carved  stone  rim.  As  she  approached,  Nigel's  eyes  were  riveted 
on  her.  His  adventure  was  really  upon  him  now  and  he  felt 
curiously  excited.  For  it  was  an  adventure,  after  all.  This 
woman  would  have  interested  him  had  she  never  written  a 
line,  had  he  never  heard  her  name.  Something  in  the  way  she 
moved,  with  an  erectness  that  while  lending  her  a  height  beyond 
what  her  inches  warranted  had  no  suggestion  of  stiffness,  only 
a  grace  quite  unselfconscious,  affected  him  as  certain  musical 
intervals  did.  Her  white  dress,  though  simple,  had  an  elegance 
that  pleased  him  and  made  him  smile  as  he  thought  of  Hugh 
and  how  it  must  have  been  lost  upon  him.  And  at  last,  as  she 
paused,  hatless,  her  parasol  bent  back  over  her  shoulder,  by  the 
lemon  trees,  he  saw  her  face.  It  was  the  strangest  face,  like  no 
other  he  had  ever  seen.  So  strange  that  he  did  not  know 
whether  it  were  beautiful.  Her  thick  fine  hair,  parted  in  the 
middle,  growing  low  on  her  forehead,  and  bound  smoothly  and 
closely  round  her  head,  was  white,  absolutely  white,  without 
any  visible  grey  or  dark  threads.  Her  skin  was  like  old  ivory, 
and  her  features,  the  straight  nose  and  strongly  marked  line  of 
mouth  and  chin,  as  clear  as  those  of  a  chiselled  statue.  In 
sharp  contrast  to  this  white  skin,  her  marked  eyebrows  were 
black  and  her  eyelashes,  also  black,  so  thick  that  Nigel  could 
only  guess  at  the  colour  of  the  eyes  they  hid.  She  was  a  pen- 


22  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

and-ink  drawing ;  exquisite,  glowing ;  for  behind  the  marble  was  fire. 

Nigel  stood  still,  after  she  had  disappeared  round  the  side 
of  the  house,  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets.  His  excitement 
made  him  smile  at  himself,  but  he  could  not  smile  it  away.  It 
was  useless  to  try  to  formulate  the  phrase  in  which  he  should 
address  Mrs.  Leonard  when  she  came  in;  none  of  his  old  open- 
ings fitted  this  occasion.  He  was  so  deeply  absorbed,  and  the 
door  opened  so  softly,  that  he  heard  nothing:  only  turned 
round  suddenly  at  the  sound  of  his  own  name  uttered  by  a  voice 
singularly  deep  for  a  woman,  and  with  an  intonation  that  gave 
the  syllables  a  new  music. 

"Mr.  Nigel  Strode?" 

The  name  was  evidently  unfamiliar  to  her.  Nigel  murmured 
something  about  Lady  Toller's  having  promised  to  write  and 
introduce  him. 

"Though  I  really,"  he  said,  "wanted  simply  to  come  and 
pay  my  respects  to  the  author  of  Prometheus. "  Something,  he 
could  not  have  said  what,  kept  him  from  mentioning  Hugh 
Infield. 

The  faintest  shade  of  colour  tinged  Mrs.  Leonard's  pale 
cheeks:  the  shadow,  he  thought,  of  a  blush.  Was  it  possible 
that  a  tribute  so  small  could  move  her? 

"Oh,  Evangeline!"  She  waved  Lady  Toller  aside  with  a 
little  gesture.  "She  only  writes  to  send  me  a  pamphlet  by 
her  husband  or  a  poem  by  her  daughter!  And  I  can't  read 
either.  But  you  yourself  write,  I  am  sure.  Is  it  not  so?  " 

She  had  seatedherself  now,  andinvited  her  guest  to  dothesame. 

Nigel  explained  that,  under  the  veil  of  editorial  anonymity, 
he  did  so.  In  the  New  World. 

Mrs.  Leonard's  fine  brows  were  drawn  down:  and  he  saw 
that  if  she  could  look  gentle,  tender,  whimsical,  she  could  also, 
on  occasion,  look  severe.  The  lines  of  her  mouth  were  stern  as 
she  answered — 

"  Yes.  I  read  the  New  World;  and  if  you  allow,  on  holidays, 
readers  to  be  frank— I  don't  always  like  it,  Mr.  Strode.  Indeed, 
I  feel  that  to  have,  by  a  happy  chance,  got  hold  of  you,  is  for 
me  a  great  opportunity !  To  tell  you  why,  if  you  will  some  time 
allow  me  that  freedom. " 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  23 

It  was  Nigel's  turn  to  blush.  He  hoped  that  a  fortnight's 
sunburn  hid  how  much  she  hurt  him;  but  as  her  clear  eyes  drew 
his  to  meet  them  he  wondered. 

"Writing, "  she  went  on,  "tells,  it  seems  to  me,  more  in  these 
days  than  it  has  ever  done.  Especially  writing  in  the  press. 
That  is  a  big  responsibility;  and  my  excuse  for  being  so 
brutal." 

As  she  smiled  gently  now  upon  him,  and  as  he  met  her  eyes 
fully — they  were  dark  grey,  he  saw,  not  black — Nigel  felt  that 
there  was  little  she  could  not  do  for  him,  if  she  would  only  go 
on  looking  at  him  like  that.  For  her  eyes  called  back  the  wild 
emotions  of  his  youth:  emotions  which  bore  no  kinship  to  the 
dry  calculations  of  his  parting,  only  a  month  ago,  from  Myrtle 
Toller.  Suddenly  to  feel  like  that  again  was  still  to  be  young, 
and  for  a  blessed  instant  at  least,  to  lay  a  hand  on  the  vanishing 
skirts  of  reality. 

"Meantime,"  Mrs.  Leonard  spoke  again,  after  what  seemed 
to  Nigel  quite  a  long  interval,  "we  will  have  some  tea.  If  you 
walked  from  Montevarchi,  you  must  be  very  ready  for  it. 
You  can,  I  expect,  give  me  news  of  many  friends  in  England 
I  have  not  seen  for  long,  and  of  much  that  is  happening  there 
that  you  people  in  Fleet  Street  are  too  clever  to  let  into  the 
newspapers.  If  you  will  unbolt  that  very  stiff  window,  Mr. 
Strode,  we  can  step  out  into  the  garden.  Ah,  thank  you;  my 
wrists  are  no  good  and  Emilia's  Carlo  has  been  too  busy.  Poor 
Emilia!  she  sighs  over  a  house  without  a  man. " 

Talk  with  Mrs.  Leonard  Nigel  found  extraordinarily  easy. 
He  was  soon  quite  sure  that  she  was  beautiful,  and  charming  in 
a  way  that  excited  and  perplexed  him  by  its  unlikeness  to  the 
charm  of  any  of  the  many  charming  women  whom  he  knew. 
She  was  also  intelligent.  She  had  read  everything,  and  assumed 
that  he  had  read  everything  too:  which  was  hardly  the  case. 
It  was  long  since  he  had  read  anything  through;  but  journalism 
had  taught  him  all  there  was  to  know  about  skimming,  and 
the  newspapers  can  carry  one  a  long  way.  Mrs.  Leonard,  he 
gathered,  read  newspapers  too;  but  her  angle  of  interest  was 
clearly  quite  different  from  his,  and  it  puzzled  him. 

"Do  tell  me,"  he  plunged  at  last—discreet  plunging  he  had 


24  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

found  useful  before  now— "what  is  it  you  don't  like  in  the 
New  World?" 

She  looked  at  him  thoughtfully  for  a  few  seconds. 

"Don't  mind  my  feelings, "  he  cried. 

"Oh,  no.     I  was  not  thinking  of  them. " 

Nigel  bit  his  lip;  it  was  not  the  first  time  within  the  hour 
that  she  had  caught  him  up  by  her  impersonality. 

"I  want  specially  to  know,"  he  went  on,  "because  I'm  just 
going  to  have  my  chance.  A  year  on  my  own.  Davis — that's 
my  editor — is  going  round  the  world.  He'll  be  away  twelve  or 
eighteen  months:  not  back  till  October  or  perhaps  even  Decem- 
ber 1914.  So  I  can  really  write  what  I  want  to.  Hitherto,  of 
course " 

He  waved  his  hands. 

Mrs.  Leonard's  eyes  rested  on  him  for  a  moment  longer. 

"My  criticism,"  she  said  at  last,  leaning  forward  and 
speaking  quickly,  "is  this.  The  New  World  claims  to  be  an 
independent  paper,  but  it's  really  entirely  committed  to  the 
Liberal  party.  It  moves  about  exclusively  on  the  surface  of 
party  catchwords.  Its  notion  of  a  programme  is  simply  some- 
thing that  the  National  Liberal  Federation  could  be  got  to 
accept.  It  combines  sentiment  and  business  exactly  in  the 
wrong  proportions,  emotionalising  over  trifles  of  no  conse- 
quence, and  refusing  to  think  out  any  of  the  big  issues.  It's 
been  deplorable  about  Suffrage. " 

"That's  Davis " 

"It's  equally  deplorable  about  foreign  policy." 

Nigel  knocked  the  ash  of  his  cigarette  neatly  into  his  saucer. 

"Of  course,"  he  said  lightly,  "I  don't  pretend  to  understand 
foreign  policy." 

Looking  up,  he  found  Mrs.  Leonard  regarding  him  with  an 
expression  that  was  almost  stern. 

"Does  that  seem  to  you  a  very  serious  lapse?" 

"Very,"  she  said  shortly.     "Very  serious  indeed. " 

"But  why?"  he  asked.  "Domestic  affairs  are  surely 
infinitely  more  important — to  say  nothing  of  their  being  both 
interesting  and  rrore  or  less  intelligible,  which  is  more  than  I 
can  say  for  foreigr  policy. " 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  25 

"Hasn't  it  then  occurred  to  you  that  domestic  affairs  are,  at 
any  moment,  at  the  mercy  of  foreign  policy?  And  largely  be- 
cause so  many  people,  especially  so  many  Liberals,  think,  like 
you,  that  it's  none  of  their  business;  don't  understand,  don't 
try  to  understand,  and  therefore  can't  criticise,  much  less 
guide?" 

Nigel  moved  rather  restlessly  in  his  chair.  He  began  to  wish 
that  Mrs.  Leonard  were  not  so  intelligent.  He  felt  comfortable 
and  at  peace  in  an  atmosphere  beautiful,  restful  and  potentially 
romantic;  why  must  her  brain  so  inexorably  work? 

"Peace,  retrenchment  and  reform,"  he  murmured,  ashamed 
of  the  shibboleth,  but  too  happily  lazy  to  trouble  about  that. 

"Ah — how  you  say  that!  Have  you  ever  thought  what  it 
means?  The  New  World  is  keen  about  social  reform,  I  give  you 
credit  for  that ;  but  aren't  reformers  always  put  off  because  their 
schemes  cost  too  much  money?  How  can  we  get  the  money — 
in  any  country  in  Europe — if  we  have  to  go  on  pouring  millions 
into  armies  and  navies?  And  how  can  you  stop  pouring  in 
those  millions  unless  foreign  offices  work  for  peace?  Instead  of 
which,  the  continuity  of  foreign  policy  is  a  continuous  risk  of 
war. " 

Nigel  sat  up.  Mrs.  Leonard's  tone  was  so  eager,  her  face 
so  grave,  that  he  felt  that  all  this  was,  to  her,  very  important. 
If  he  showed  that  to  him  it  didn't  matter,  he  would  earn  her 
contempt. 

"I  am  afraid  the  difficulty  with  me  has  been  a  rather  stupid 
one.  The  kind  of  Liberal  who  is  always  making  a  row  about 
Morocco  and  Persia  and  Denshawai  and  Miss  Malecka,  and 
all  that,  puts  me  off  dreadfully. " 

"Oh,  your  'all  that'!"  Mrs.  Leonard  exclaimed. 

"They  haven't  thought  it  out,"  he  went  on.  "They 
want  us  to  reduce  armaments  and  be  the  preux  Chevalier 
of  Europe  at  the  same  time.  I'm  all  in  favour  of  interven- 
tion; but  to  intervene  one  must  be  strong.  If  our  civ- 
ilisation— which,  after  all,  is  the  highest  in  Europe — 
is  to  count,  we  must  use  it  to  help  other  peoples  who  are  strug- 
gling  " 

"Ah,  but  wouldn't  it  tell  much  more  effectively  if  we 


26  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

were  definitely  always  on  the  side  of  peace?  I  don't  mean 
vaguely,  as  a  pious  aspiration,  given  up  when  there  is  any 
difficulty,  anything  that  looks  like  an  affront  to  our  amour 
propre  or  a  danger  to  our  exported  capital,  but  as  a  definite 
policy?" 

Mrs.  Leonard  went  on,  speaking  earnestly,  but  without 
excitement.  The  sound  of  her  own  lovely  voice  clearly  did 
not  excite  her.  She  was  not,  he  guessed,  led  on  from 
word  to  word,  as  he  was.  The  argument  was  a  familiar  one 
to  her,  she  had  traversed  all  the  ground  before,  and  knew 
the  ways.  To  Nigel  it  was  a  jungle,  thick  with  catch- 
words, tags,  echoes  of  things  he  had  said  himself  or  heard 
others  say.  Words  came  back  to  him,  not  ideas.  A 
weight  of  ignorance  oppressed  him.  Foreign  policy  he 
had  always  looked  upon  as  like  mathematics:  a  thing 
most  ordinary  people  had  better  leave  alone.  Matheson 
always  wrote  the  foreign  articles  for  the  New  World,  and 
very  dull  they  were.  He  supposed  they  must  have  them 
now  and  then,  and  that  somebody  read  them;  but  he  sel- 
dom did  more  than  glance  over  them  himself,  mainly 
in  order  to  sigh  over  Matheson's  deplorable  indifference  to 
English.  Beyond  this  ignorance,  which  made  the  sub- 
ject wearisome,  he  was  conscious  of  a  vague  disagree- 
ment with  Mrs.  Leonard,  which  he  did  not  want  to  for- 
mulate. Why — he  came  back  again  to  that — must  she 
argue?  It  was  sheer  pleasure  to  listen  to  her  voice,  if 
only  he  might  listen  to  the  sound  without  being  asked  to 
take  in  what  she  said,  and  to  watch  her  as  the  moving  light 
of  the  gradually  sinking  sun  played  over  her  pale  face  and 
wonderful  hands. 

"You  don't  feel  it,  I  see." 

Nigel  roused  himself,  for  he  caught  disappointment  in  the 
flattening  of  her  voice.  These  things  were  not  lost  upon 
him. 

"You  don't  care  about  peace?" 

"Peace?"  he  said.  "No.  I  suppose  not.  It  always  seems 
to  me  rather  a  dull  smug  thing,  like  all  the  other  negatives: 
Anti-Suffrage,  Anti- Vivisection,  Anti-War."  His  tone  was 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  27 

indefinably  scornful  and  belittling,  a  more  or  less  unconscious 
refusal  of  the  solemnity  of  hers. 

Mrs.  Leonard  looked  at  him:  he  felt  her  eyes  hold  his, 
as  she  shook  her  head. 

"Peace  is  not  easy;  it's  not  just  the  negation  of  war.  It 
is  .  .  ."  she  paused  and  looked  away  from  him,  out  to- 
wards the  horizon.  For  a  perceptible  instant  she  was 
silent.  "It's  the  hardest  achievement  of  effort  in  the 
general  life,  just  as  self-control  is  in  the  individual  life." 

Nigel  thought  for  a  moment.  What  strange  connections 
she  saw.  Life  thus  seen  was  almost  terrifying  in  the  dense 
complexity  of  its  tissue. 

"I  don't  think  I  put  self-control  nearly  so  high,"  he  said. 

"No,  I  know  you  don't.  Oh,  it  doesn't  take  me  long 
to  see  you're  a  modern.  You're  one  of  the  young  genera- 
tion Jean  Christophe  speaks  of.  You  want  something 
quite  different.  Excitement;  the  sense  of  life  rushing. 
So  does  my  Daphne.  .  .  .  But  there  is  absolutely  more  life 
in  stillness,  for  it's  only  when  a  thing  is  deep  that  it 
is  still.  Peace — real  peace — not  the  sort  Europe's  got  at 
present — is  the  deepest  thing  there  is.  Look  at  those 
hills.  Their  peace  is  the  outcome  of  their  long  history.  No 
new  or  desert  place  gives  you  that  sense.  It's  long  en- 
durance, labour,  sacrifice,  conquest  of  the  unwilling  soil, 
just  as  self-control  is  conquest  of  the  unwilling  self.  And 
there's  no  short  road  to  it.  You  have  to  want  peace 
passionately,  with  all  the  hardest  feeling  and  thinking 
you've  got,  before  you  can  win  it,  even  for  your  little 
soul.  How  much  more  for  all  the  world.  It's  the  greatest 
quest  there  is.  And  yet  you're  belittling  it  in  your  mind, 
Mr.  Strode,  even  now,  while  I  talk  to  you.  I  know  you  are. 
.  .  .  And  yet,  I  believe  if  you  could  only  see  it,  you  would 
work  for  it.  ...  One  day  you  will." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Nigel's  eyes  still  rested  on  the 
hills  to  which  they  had  turned  when  Mrs.  Leonard  point- 
ed to  them,  his  eyes  gradually  distinguishing  their  out- 
lines and  separating  vine  from  olive  on  their  sleeping 
slopes,  now  left  in  shadow.  He  looked  thoughtful;  but  he 


28  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

was  not  thinking.  He  was  acutely  aware  of  himself, 
aware  that  Mrs.  Leonard  was  looking  at  him  in  the  belief 
that  his  mind  was  at  work  to  follow  hers.  But  he  was  not 
thinking.  Vague  phrases  floated  across  his  brain,  bring- 
ing with  them  trails  of  old  argument,  and  the  pages  of  for- 
gotten books,  that  was  all.  Something  was  happening 
to  him,  something  far  more  thrilling  than  the  search  for 
thoughts. 

"When  you  speak  like  that,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  almost 
see  it.  But  I  can't  hold  it  for  myself.  It's  like  all  these  in- 
hibitions." 

Mrs.  Leonard  sighed,  but  smiled  when  he  paused  and  mo- 
tioned him  to  go  on. 

"I  can't,  yet,  feel  I  want  any  of  them  for  its  own  sake. 
Self-realisation  still  seems  to  me  to  come  before  self-control, 
and  many,  many  things  before  tranquillity.  In  tranquillity 
all  the  hard  and  ardent  parts  of  one  go  soft  and  dull — parts 
that  awake  and  live  under  stress." 

"But  stress,"  Mrs.  Leonard  took  him  up,  "need  not  come 
from  outside.  The  real  stresses  that  make  men  are  in- 
side the  soul.  You  don't  grow  good  and  strong  from 
what  other  people  do  to  you,  only  from  what  you  do  to 
yourself." 

Nigel  frowned. 

"I  wonder  .  .  .  Do  you  know,  I  feel  I'm  always  waiting 
for  some  experience  that  will  make  me.  ...  I'm  not  made 
yet,  I  know  ...  for  something  that  will  bring  me  out.  Is 
thirty-seven  too  late  for  hope,  do  you  think?" 

Mrs.  Leonard  did  not  reply.  Her  eyes  rested  on  him 
in  a  slow  inquiry  that,  despite  the  soft  beauty  of  her  gaze, 
he  felt  as  searching.  But  life  while  she  looked  at  him  and 
the  scents  floated  up  from  the  garden  was  real;  it  had  never 
been  so  real  before.  He  rose  to  take  his  leave,  promised  joy- 
fully to  return  next  day  to  lunch,  and  mentally  determined 
to  remain  at  least  till  Sunday  at  Montevarchi;  he  had  clean 
shirts  to  last  till  Sunday,  even  without  writing  to  his  Florence 
hotel. 


CHAPTER  THREE 

THE  inn  at  Montevarchi  was  neither  comfortable  nor 
very  clean.  Nigel,  who  disliked  discomfort,  and  loathed 
dirt,  had  not  intended  to  pass  more  than  one  or  at  most 
two  nights  there,  though  his  first  walk  up  to  the  casa  had 
given  him  a  vivid  sense  of  the  beauty  of  the  country. 
After  all,  there  was  beautiful  country  in  many  parts  of  Italy, 
and  some  inns  that  were  both  comfortable  and  clean: 
to  say  nothing  of  Florence,  where  one  could  even  have 
a  hot  bath  and  food  that,  while  interestingly  different,  was 
not  soaked  in  olive  oil.  Yet  after  his  first  visit  to  Mrs. 
Leonard  he  decided  to  stay  on,  and  after  his  second  ceased 
to  consider  his  departure  at  all.  His  previous  plans  for 
seeing  all  sorts  of  places — Siena,  Assisi  and  Ravenna, 
never  seen  before  and  that  certainly  ought  to  be  seen, 
— disappeared,  and  he  gave  himself  up  to  a  vagueness 
of  intention  not  in  the  least  characteristic.  Every  morn- 
ing found  him  ascending  the  long  road  up  the  hill;  and  it 
was  more  often  than  not  under  the  stars  that  he  walked  home 
at  night. 

Mrs.  Leonard  asked  him  nothing  about  his  plans:  she 
asked  no  questions  at  all,  and,  except  about  his  views, 
seemed  without  curiosity.  They  parted  in  the  evening 
with  an  absence  of  leave-taking  which  implied  his  return; 
but  he  could  not  be  sure  that  she  expected  him  or  that  she 
would  be  surprised  if  he  did  not  turn  up.  He  hoped  she  did 
expect  him — but  he  did  not  know.  The  only  indica- 
tion she  had  ever  let  slip  of  any  interest  in  his  movements 
was  a  remark  dropped  one  morning  to  the  effect  that  Daphne 

29 


30  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

was  probably  coming  out  at  the  end  of  the  week:  but  she 
did  not  say,  as  he  had  hoped  she  might,  that  she  wanted  him 
to  see  Daphne. 

It  was  curious  the  combination  in  her  of  a  complete  ab- 
sence of  inquiry  as  to  his  life  with  an  extreme  interest  in  his 
opinions.  Sometimes  he  regretted  that  she  was  so  imper- 
sonal: often  her  preoccupation  with  opinions  worried,  occa- 
sionally even  wearied  him.  But  her  charm  was  so  great  that 
even  when  he  found  it  fatiguing  to  keep  up  with  her 
mind,  he  rested  on  her  face  and  on  her  voice;  and  he 
grew  clever,  as  he  learned  to  know  his  way  about  her 
ideas,  in  calling  up  from  the  mixed  confusion  of  his  own 
mind  those  that  were  harmonious.  He  could  feel  gen- 
uinely thrilled  by  her  belief  in  human  goodness:  for  to 
believe  in  the  ultimate  tightness  of  things  was  as  near 
as  he  had  ever  got  to  a  general  view  of  the  world.  If 
he  could  not  share  her  faith  in  International  Socialism 
as  a  means,  he  could  sympathise  with  the  end;  and  after 
all,  since  a  limited  time  must  carry  him  away  from  her 
to  London  where  International  Socialism  seldom  pre- 
sented itself,  he  could  agree  provisionally  to  much  that 
he  was  not  prepared  to  accept  permanently.  There  were 
times  when  a  fear  crossed  him  that  she  rated  his  brains 
and  his  agreement  too  high;  but  that  fear  was  less  poign- 
ant than  its  twin,  the  dread  that  she  might  think  him 
narrow  and  limited.  He  was  not  narrow  or  limited  when 
he  was  with  her;  that  was  the  wonder.  She  enabled 
him  to  see  things  in  a  sustained  manner  which  he  could 
not  achieve  for  himself,  and  if  the  effort  sometimes  tired 
him,  there  were  long  and  lovely  intervals  of  silence  when 
she  did  not  ask  him  to  think  at  all;  times  when  they 
merely  sat  in  the  sunshine;  times  when  he  read  aloud 
to  her,  and  he  read  aloud  uncommonly  well,  as  he  knew. 

Nigel,  like  many  loose  thinkers,  had  a  conviction  that 
there  was  a  vast,  vague  region  of  the  inexpressible,  in 
which  most  of  the  big  ideas  and  emotions  of  life  resided.  He 
believed  that  he  saw  many  more  things,  felt  many  more 
things,  than  he  could  put  into  words  either  to  himself 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  31 

or  any  one  else.  He  had,  of  course,  never  defined  at  all  clearly 
what  these  things  were;  but  just  as  he  held  that  the  world 
was  ultimately  good,  without  knowing  how  or  why  or  where, 
so  he  held  that  there  were  innumerable  things  in  himself 
not  analysable  or  realised,  capable  of  coming  out  at  their 
right  time.  He  had  a  kind  of  horror  of  sharp  analysis.  Hugh 
often  grieved  him  by  the  downrightness  of  his  expression 
and  his  constant  endeavour  to  "get  things  clear,"  as  he  called 
it;  it  was  a  process  under  which  so  much  lovely  bloom  dis- 
appeared without  compensation.  Mrs.  Leonard  sometimes 
seemed  to  him  to  err,  as  Hugh  did,  by  a  kind  of  hardness 
of  mind,  a  propensity  to  place  and  settle  things,  a  desire 
"to  know  what  one  thought"  on  subjects  not  intrinsically 
adapted  to  such  knowledge.  But  generally  he  could  supply 
the  blur  round  her  clear  edges,  while  she  gave  shape  to  the 
dim  forms  of  his  own  apprehensions.  She  made  him 
feel  that  he  had,  after  all,  more  clear  ideas  than  he  had  im- 
agined: made  him  look  forward,  with  a  keenness  long 
unfamiliar,  to  his  desk  at  the  New  World  office,  where  he 
saw  himself  writing  remarkable  articles  that  would  give  him 
a  new  position  and  journalism  a  lost  zest. 

Moreover,  if  her  mind  were  unnecessarily  tough,  no 
woman  happily  could  be  all  mind,  or  even  so  predom- 
inantly mind  as  some  men  managed  to  be:  Aurelia  Leonard 
least  of  all.  The  very  contrast  between  some  of  the 
things  she  said — the  way,  for  instance,  in  which  she  seemed 
to  deprecate  emotional  and  insist  on  intellectual  judg- 
ments— and  the  soft  richness  of  the  voice  in  which  she 
uttered  them,  indicated  to  him  a  fund  of  beautiful  differ- 
ences. When  she  sat  sewing  while  he  read  to  her,  she 
was  all  woman,  and  woman  full  of  tenderness  and  potential 
passion.  If  the  fine  clearness  of  her  features  corresponded 
to  the  clearness  of  her  brain,  from  the  first  he  had  seen  her 
face  as  complex  rather  than  clear.  Simple  she  certainly  was 
not.  There  were  expressions  in  her  eyes,  curves  of  her  mouth, 
that  showed  her  to  him  daily  as  a  woman  not  to  argue  with, 
but  to  adore.  That,  hidden,  was  her  real  self:  the  fire  he  had 
felt  behind  the  marble. 


32  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

Nigel's  desire  to  know  her  history  grew,  but  not  his  knowl- 
edge. Whatever  else  she  talked  of  she  never  talked  of  herself. 
By  the  end  of  two  days  Nigel  fancied  she  knew  all  about  him; 
but  his  self -revelations  provoked  no  revelations  from  her;  he 
continued  to  know  nothing  about  her.  He  exhausted  all  his 
store  of  openings — generally  the  process  of  getting  to  know  a 
person  proceeded  on  fairly  definite  lines — without  any  result. 
He  had  thought  more  than  once  of  asking  her  about  Hugh 
Infield,  but  each  time  decided  against  it.  Hugh  had  never  men- 
tioned him  to  her:  that  was  obvious  and  a  relief,  for  Hugh  would 
have  told  her  about  Myrtle  Toller,  an  incident  he  wanted  to 
forget.  Moreover,  Nigel  wanted  to  be  known  to  her  entirely 
as  himself,  not  as  connected  with  Hugh.  Nor  would  Hugh 
help  him  to  discoveries.  Hugh,  Nigel  felt  sure,  knew  nothing: 
Hugh  was  not  the  sort  of  man  who  knew  secrets  about  women. 
Hugh  probably  argued  with  Mrs.  Leonard;  that  was  all. 

The  only  personal  topic  on  which  she  seemed  interested  in 
talking  was  her  daughter.  Nigel  did  not  know  Daphne  and 
desired,  on  the  whole,  to  obliterate  her  existence  from  his 
mind.  She  was  associated  there  with  Myrtle  Toller,  which  was 
bad;  and  with  Mrs.  Leonard  as  a  mother,  which  was  not  much 
better.  Nor  did  the  subject  in  itself  help  him  much.  Mrs. 
Leonard  adored  her  daughter;  she  never  looked  more  lovely 
than  when  she  spoke  of  her;  but  Daphne  to  her  was  an  individ- 
ual, not  an  extension  of  herself.  She  did  not  speak  of  Daphne 
in  ways  that  cast  light  back;  she  never,  by  any  chance,  referred 
to  Daphne's  father.  Clearly  he  no  longer  existed,  in  any  effec- 
tive sense;  but  it  was  not  clear  that  he  was  dead.  It  was 
Daphne's  future  that  Mrs.  Leonard  looked  to,  and  Daphne's 
future,  in  her  view,  was  in  Daphne's  own  hands. 

Since  Daphne  had  gone  nearly  three  years  ago  to  Newnham, 
her  mother  had  lived  mainly  abroad;  before  that  apparently 
also  largely  abroad,  but  at  some  time  in  London.  London  was 
a  wide  term;  but  there  was  only  one  London  in  which  a  woman 
like  Mrs.  Leonard  could  have  moved,  and  assuredly  she  could 
not,  Nigel  felt,  have  lived  in  his  London  without  being  a  marked 
figure  in  it.  There  must,  therefore,  be  people,  accessible  people, 
who  knew  all  about  her.  He  longed  to  get  hold  of  one  of  them. 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  33 

She  admitted  to  knowing  houses  he  knew:  and  evidently  knew 
more  intimately  than  he  did  some  that  he  knew  a  little,  and 
would  have  gladly  known  better.  But  none  of  these  references 
led  on  to  anything. 

She  made  London  seem  far  away — the  London  of  incessant 
personal  discussion,  shifting  relationships,  ennui  and  rush — far 
away  and  also  small.  The  things  for  which  there  was  never 
time  in  London  were  the  things  that  occupied  her.  To  Nigel 
life  out  of  London  had  always  before  looked  empty  and  unreal; 
but  Mrs.  Leonard  made  London  look  unreal,  life  was  so  real 
with  her.  He  thought  of  the  world  of  which  only  a  fortnight 
ago  he  had  been  part,  the  people  with  whom  he  had  spent  his 
days  and  nights  passed  before  him,  a  bright  procession  of  pan- 
tomime figures  further  away  from  his  feelings  than  their  forms 
were  from  his  sense.  It  was  difficult  to  believe  that  they  were 
all  going  on,  as  much  alive  as  he  was:  Hugh  Infield  as  cheer- 
fully gloomy,  Gervase  O'Connor  as  angrily  eager,  Myrtle  Toller 
as  brightly  gay,  the  Nugents  as  important  as  ever,  perhaps 
talking  of  him  as  one  talked  in  London  for  a  brief  time  of  the 
absent  before  they  dropped  out  in  favour  of  some  newer  face. 
He  wondered  idly  what  they  were  saying.  It  seemed  to  matter 
less  than  usual.  He  wanted,  less  than  usual,  to  analyse  and 
inspect  himself.  He  felt  that  he  had  escaped  from  himself,  no 
less  than  from  London.  A  new  atmosphere  had  closed  round 
and  was  re-making  him.  New  atmospheres,  when  as  strong  as 
this,  generally  meant  that  one  was  falling  in  love.  Nigel  smiled 
as  he  asked  himself  whether  he  were  falling  in  love  with  Mrs. 
Leonard.  The  fascination  of  the  question  was  that  he  need  not 
answer  it. 

More  than  a  week  passed  thus;  then  an  evening  came  which 
Nigel,  looking  back,  could  never  quite  explain. 

Mrs.  Leonard  had  told  him  not  to  come  up  till  tea-time,  for 
she  was  busy.  The  day  had  been  extraordinarily  hot  and  Nigel 
spent  most  of  it  lying  half  asleep  under  the  shade  of  a  vast 
cypress  tree.  He  had  taken  out  with  him  a  French  book  on 
Socialism  which  had  produced  a  delightfully  soothing  effect. 
After  a  few  pages  it  had  dropped  from  his  hand,  to  be  replaced 
by  dreams  half  real  and  half  the  pleasant  weavings  of  an  idle 


34  DEAD  YESTERDAY 


The  sun  was  stffl  blazing  as  he  walked  up  to  the  casa  and 
the  garden  so  hot  that  they  sat  in  the  house,  going  out  again  for 
sapper  on  the  terrace. 

Gradually  the  fight  thirfawd  and  withdrew  as  they  sat  on 
with  cigarettes.  Round  them  the  warm  night  dosed,  a  presence 
shotting  out  the  need  for  talk.  The  cry  of  the  cicalas  in  the 
grass  made  an  incessant  undercurrent,  and  now  and  then  Carlo's 
voice  from  the  yard  broke  out  in  a  snatch  of  sudden  song,  curi- 

MnJy  mplnfKnns  thnrigh  his  frmps  tn  sppalring  WPTP  harsh       The 

lavender  ramp  to  them  in  wafts  and  mingled  with  the  sharp 
sweetness  of  the  If-mnns,  The  sky  was  fike  bhie  velvet:  star- 
less and  stffl.  Tn  Niggl  thp  .qpTtgR  of  -pmrf*  foflt  had  hppn  mrmH 
him  '-"  d.iv  dr^er-rC. 

Suddenly  Emilia  appeared  at  the  window  and  said  some- 
thing to  Mrs.  Leonard  in  Italian,  on  which  she  rose  and  went 
into  the  house.  Nigel  sat  on,  dreaming. 

A  few  minutes  passed  and  he  became  aware  that  the  sky, 
which  had  been  dear,  had  thickened  and  darkened.  It  was 
black  velvet  now,  not  blue;  wet  black  velvet.  Heavy  raindrops 
clattered  on  to  the  stone  flags  round  the  well,  large  and  few  at 
first,  then  more  numerous.  The  shower  was  sudden  and  violent: 
it  ceased  almost  as  quickly  as  it  had  begun.  But  instead  of 
clearing  the  air  it  left  it  full  of  a  curious  oppression.  Theskyin 
its  unbroken  darkness  gp«nryy||  heavy  with  a  weight  of  something 
stffl  held  back  that  brooded,  threatening,  over  the  garden  and 
the  hflie 

Nigel  had  gone  indoors,  where  he  dropped  on  to  a  chair  by 
the  window  and  fit  a  cigarette.  On  the  table  the  small  lamp, 
which  the  servant  had  fit  when  she  brought  in  the  coffee  that 
waited  there  for  Mrs.  Leonard,  cast  a  circle  of  fight,  brilliant 
on  the  carnations,  growing  dim  as  it  spread,  and  leaving  most 
of  the  room  wrapped  in  mysterious  fJarimpss  that  gave  its  size 
an  immeasurable  extension.  Faint  shadows  glimmered  on  the 
polished  floor,  and  the  white  of  the  drawing  of  Daphne  on  the 
wallshone  queeriy,  so  queeriy  that  Nigel  almost  got  up  to 
reamine  it.  He  did  not.  Instead  he  leaned  back  in  Ins  chair, 
drugged  by  the  atmosphere  of  the  room,  which  seemed  to  wait 
even  more  intensely  than  the  sky  outside.  He  wondered  as 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  35 

tching  the  light  and  puzzhng  over  the  way  in 


waiting,  of  which  he  had  spoken  to  Mrs.  Leonard  again  only 
last  night,  was  really  to  be  solved  in  achievement  at  last;  was 
tins  the  experience  to  which  everything  had  been  leading?  The 
place  was  right;  it  was  exactly  a  place  in  which  tilings  ought  to 
happen;  his  mood  was  right  —  a  dreamy  receptivity  that  surely 
came  from  the  tension  of  secret  strings;  and  Aurefia  —  remote, 
mysterious,  beautiful,  baffling  —  was  fife,  that  elusive  thing,  at 
its  strangest  and  richest.  He  did  not  know  her  story,  but  all 
that  had  happened  to  her  in  the  past  had  only  served  to  give  her 
the  wonderful  maturity  she  carried  now.  Xo  compare  her  with 
younger  women  was  to  compare  a  rich  embroidery  to  a  plain 
muslin.  Muslin  had  its  beauty,  but  not  for  a  royal  robe.  He 
could  not  get  beyond  these  vague  comparisons  in  the  effort  to 
express  her:  and  then  it  was  still  the  effect  on  him  that  got  ex- 
pressed, not  what  she  was  in  herself.  That  remained  for  him 
indefinable.  Knowing  her  better  had  made  her  more  obscure, 
not  dearer.  She  was  wonderful;  but  he  could  not  fnrmnlatg  a 
single  impression  about  her.  He  simply,  stupidly,  rann»  back 
to  that.  No  one  had  ever  been  so  wonderful.  And  to  feel  a 
person  wonderful  to  tins  extent,  was  it  not  to  be  in  love? 

At  last  the  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Leonard  came  in,  her  long 
skirts  swishing  softly  behind  her  as  she  moved  over  the  polished 
Boor.  She  was  lovely  in  that  dim  rose  colour  with  its  hanging 
sleeves  and  trailing  draperies:  the  silver  threads  in  the  filmy  lace 

srarf  OVPT  hpr  hpgH  glfanvH 


In  her  hand  she  held  a  pale  yellow  envelope. 

Nigel's  eyes  interrogated  her. 

"Daphne's  not  coming,  after  all.  Not  for  a  week.  She's 
got  influenza.  ' 

"Oh,  Fm  sorry,"  he  mummied. 

"Yes.  It's  very  disappointing.  For,  of  course,  it  cuts  short 
her  time,  if  she  comes  at  ah.  I  am  not  sure  that  she  had  better 
come.  The  journey's  trying  in  the  heat,  and  she's  not  used  to 
being  21:  shell  hate  it,  and  need  more  restoring  after  -  '* 

"I  am  sorry,"  Nigel  repeated.  "You  win  have  to  put  up 
with  me." 


36  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

He  was  conscious  of  a  thrill  as  he  met  her  eyes:  but  nothing 
in  them  told  him  whether  she  felt  anything.  They  were  dark 
to  him,  her  eyes;  deeper  than  any  eyes  he  had  ever  looked  into 
seemed  the  depths  in  which  he  lost  himself:  he  gazed  down  and 
down  and  the  clear  darkness  gave  him  back  so  many  things  that  he 
emerged  gasping,  with  the  feeling  that  he  had  plunged  without 
knowledge  or  direction.  Nigel  felt  he  was  committing  himself 
as  he  gazed,  involuntarily  and  yet  entirely  without  invitation,  to 
what  he  did  not  know.  A  kind  of  terror  stirred  beneath  his 
thrill.  Mrs.  Leonard  did  not  make  any  reply:  he  was  not  sure 
that  she  had  heard. 

"You  haven't  had  your  coffee,"  she  said.  "I'm  afraid  it 
must  be  cold  .  .  .  and  there's  a  real  storm  coming  on  ... 
I'm  almost  glad  Daphne  is  not  coming:  it  would  have  been  a 
wild  drive  up  from  Montevarchi. " 

She  filled  a  cup  and  held  it  to  him  as  she  spoke. 

As  he  took  it  a  low  roar  was  audible. 

"Listen."  Mrs.  Leonard  held  up  her  hand.  "It's  begin- 
ning. Ah !  there's  the  lightning. " 

She  moved  to  the  window  and  sat  down  on  the  low  seat. 
Nigel  had  sprung  to  his  feet  and  stood,  his  upraised  arms  against 
the  edges  of  the  window-pane,  staring  out.  Across  the  sky 
another  flash  tore,  leaving  it  darker  than  ever,  and  then  nearly 
a  minute  after  came  the  dull  roar  of  the  thunder — still  far  away, 
among  the  hills. 

He  stood  fascinated,  watching  for  the  next  flash.  It  came, 
and  for  an  instant  blinded  him;  but  its  effect  lasted  longer  than 
the  flash.  He  felt  as  though  he  had  received  an  electric  charge; 
as  though  it  had  all  passed  direct  into  him;  as  though  he  were 
there  just  to  take  it  in  and  it  was  for  him  that  it  had  come. 
And  the  lightning  seemed  to  have  made  things  clear,  to  have 
given  him  what  he  was  waiting  for,  what  he  wanted.  It  filled 
him  so  that  he  did  not  dare  to  turn  round.  He  simply  could 
not  look  at  Aurelia,  with  all  that  thrilling  and  darting  through 
him;  he  felt  that  if  she  saw  him  she  must  see  what  had  happened, 
see  that  some  one  else  was  standing  there,  not  the  normal  Nigel, 
cool  and  calm,  but  a  creature  dangerously  transported  and  trans- 
figured as  by  fire.  The  sensation  was  wonderful,  he  wanted  it 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  37 

to  last;  he  longed  for  the  next  flash,  to  increase  and  reinforce  it; 
for  in  the  strangest  way  he  felt,  as  he  had  never  felt  before, 
directly  in  touch  with  elemental  things.  It  was  not,  of  course, 
he  said  to  himself,  that  the  lightning  had  given  him  these  feel- 
ings: they  had  been  called  out  of  their  trance,  their  slumber, 
that  was  all.  It  was  from  him  they  came,  that  was  the  marvel. 

Louder,  quicker,  nearer  came  the  thunder.  The  storm  was 
passing  from  the  distant  hill  tops,  coming  down  their  slopes, 
coming  towards  them. 

The  next  flash  was  tremendous,  it  lit  up  the  whole  garden — 
Nigel  saw  the  well  and  the  lavender  hedges  and  the  lemon  trees 
in  their  carved  pots  with  an  unreal  distinctness — and  passed 
into  the  room  so  that  for  an  instant  all  was  light  there  too.  In 
that  luminous  instant  Nigel  saw  Mrs.  Leonard.  She  was  lean- 
ing back  in  her  chair,  her  arms  extended  along  its  arms,  her 
head  resting  against  the  cushion,  her  eyes  wide  open  and  shin- 
ing like  stars.  Her  lips  were  parted  and  curved  into  what  was 
not  quite  but  very  nearly  a  smile.  Joy  seemed  to  radiate  from 
her.  Her  eyes  met  Nigel's  for  a  moment;  rested  on  him  with  a 
steady  glance  that  spoke  untranslatable  things:  and  then  she 
smiled. 

He  moved  a  step  towards  her  and  would  have  fallen  at  her 
feet  and  caught  her  hand.  But  before  the  impulse  could  pass 
into  act,  the  light  had  gone,  extinguished  in  opaque  darkness. 
A  sudden  wild  gust  of  wind  had  blown  open  the  window  and  put 
out  the  lamp.  The  room  was  filled  with  chill  air  and  the  roar 
and  rattle  of  thunder. 

Nigel  stood  still,  his  heart  beating  wildly.  He  had  missed 
his  moment  and  he  knew  it ;  but  as  he  felt  the  cold  air  on  his  brow 
and  the  rain,  that  had  suddenly  begun  and  was  now  pouring 
down  in  little  cataracts,  wet  against  his  face,  he  did  not  know 
whether  he  were  glad  or  sorry. 

He  moved  quickly  to  the  window;  caught  the  pane  swing- 
ing to  and  fro  on  its  hinge  and  creaking  dangerously,  and 
slammed  it  to;  then  turning  and  feeling  his  way  to  the  table 
struck  a  match  and  fumbled  with  the  lamp.  The  first  match 
went  out  and  the  second,  for  his  fingers  trembled,  but  the 
third  was  successful.  The  light  sprang  up  again  and,  small 


38  DEAID   YESTERDAY 

though  it  was,  it  seemed,  after  the  intense  and  solid  darkness, 
to  illuminate  the  whole  room  with  a  brilliance  that  was  harsh, 
almost  cruel. 

Mrs.  Leonard  had  said  nothing.  She  had  not  moved 
from  her  chair  or  changed  her  position.  When  Nigel  looked 
in  her  direction — not  at  her,  he  felt  he  could  not  do  that — 
she  was  still  sitting  with  her  arms  extended,  her  hands  clasp- 
ing the  knobs,  her  head  resting  against  the  cushion.  But 
if  her  position  had  not  changed,  something  had  changed. 
It  was  not  only  that  her  face,  which  had  been  relaxed,  was 
now  tense;  her  hands  were  clasped  round  the  knobs  so  that 
the  little  blue  veins  stood  out  on  the  smooth  tanned  skin; 
her  mouth  was  shut  and  her  chin  firm;  and  her  eyes,  which 
had  been  open,  were  now  closed.  Something  more  had  hap- 
pened. Joy  had  died.  The  colour  had  gone  from  her  alto- 
gether. The  rose  of  her  dress  was  not  now  reflected  in  her 
cheeks,  they  were  paler  than  ivory,  transparently  pale;  and 
her  unsmiling  lips  were  closed,  like  a  window  over  which  a 
shutter  has  been  barred. 

Nigel  looked  at  her  and  realised  that  he  felt  cold,  and 
that  his  coldness  was  not  physical  only;  it  did  not  come  from 
the  relentless  rain  swishing  down  in  the  garden,  run- 
ning off  the  roof  in  little  rills,  beating  on  the  flags  with 
a  sound  almost  as  of  stones  dropping.  It  was  the  cold 
of  fear. 

He  could  not  understand  or  analyse  his  fear,  it  was  too 
comprehensive.  He  only  knew  that  it  was  there,  and  so  much 
there  that  nothing  else  was  there  at  all.  He  dreaded  the 
moment  when  Mrs.  Leonard  should  open  her  eyes.  That  was 
not  all  he  dreaded,  but  he  did  dread  it  so  much  that  he  turned 
again  to  the  window. 

He  might  fix  his  eyes  on  the  dark  pane,  but  there  was 
nothing  to  be  seen,  nothing  but  blackness;  he  could  not  even 
see  the  rain  except  where  it  had  starred  the  glass,  only 
hear  it.  As  he  listened,  absorbed  in  the  mechanical  act 
of  attention,  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  downpour  was 
slackening.  Yes,  certainly  it  was.  For  a  new  sound 
surely  became  audible,  the  chirping  in  the  grass  of  the 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  39 

cicalas.  He  listened;  this  sound  gained  upon  the  other, 
that  of  the  falling  down  of  water,  until  he  perceived  it 
only. 

The  rain  was  stopping,  had  stopped  as  suddenly  as  it 
had  begun.  The  opaque  darkness  grew  less  solid.  As 
he  stared,  he  first  imagined  that  he  could  distinguish 
a  paleness  where  sky  ended  and  hills  began,  then  really  could 
distinguish  it,  then  as  his  eyes  travelled  down  could  once 
more  make  out  the  forms  of  things — the  rose  hedge,  the  flower 
beds,  the  well  and  the  carved  pots.  There  they  all  were  again. 
It  seemed  ages  since  he  had  seen  them  before,  though  nothing 
had  happened,  not  a  word  been  spoken.  But  there  they  were 
again.  The  real  garden  had  come  back,  the  dream  had  parted 
and  fled.  The  sky  passed  from  black  to  darkest  grey,  from 
darkest  grey  to  blue;  a  star  arose.  The  sound  of  the  cicalas 
filled  the  air  once  more,  and  the  water  running  away  in  rills 
was  nothing  but  a  distant  undercurrent.  Again  the  voice 
of  Carlo  broke  out,  sweet  because  human  and  normal,  bring- 
ing back  the  world  of  every  day. 

"Oh,  open  the  window,  Mr.  Strode;  it's  very  hot  in  here 
and  smells  of  lamp." 

The  spell  was  broken. 

Nigel  opened  the  window  and  leaned  out.  The  night  air 
was  sweet  and  soft:  washed  and  refreshed.  The  scents  rose 
up  at  him  and  swept  in  through  the  window.  Under  the  clear 
dark  sky  the  hills  lay  sleeping. 

Nigel  took  out  his  watch. 

"I  must  be  getting  home,"  he  said.  "It  may  begin  to 
rain  again." 

Mrs.  Leonard — she  had  risen  to  her  feet  and  was  standing 
by  him — smiled  as  she  extended  her  hand. 

"Good  night,"  she  said.  "The  road  is  quite  safe  now,  I 
think." 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

IT  had  seemed  to  Nigel  quite  absurd  that  he  should  be 
dragged  out  to  the  wilds  of  Hammersmith  within  ten 
days  of  his  return  to  town,  because  Davis  would  fuss  over 
final  arrangements,  insisted  on  seeing  him  before  his  own 
departure,  and  had  a  cold  which  he  refused  to  bring  up  to 
Fleet  Street.  Davis  really  had  nothing  to  say  that  mat- 
tered; he  had  never  had  any  voice  on  the  literary  side  of  the 
paper;  and  his  ugly  room  was  stuffy,  smelt  of  eucalyp- 
tus and  was  certainly  impregnated  with  germs.  The 
whole  thing  was  a  waste  of  time,  and  ten  to  one  Nigel  would 
have  caught  his  cold.  It  was  after  six  when  he  got  away, 
not  in  the  best  of  tempers. 

But  perched  on  the  top  of  a  bus  swinging  eastwards  he 
forgave  Davis,  as  the  sense  of  London  sank  into  his  mind 
again  and  he  realised  how  intimately  he  was  part  of  that 
mighty  whole.  London  did  for  one  instead  of  so  much:  in- 
stead of  almost  everything.  She  lived,  even  if  one  did  not 
live  oneself;  she  filled  up  the  holes  and  spaces.  To  other 
eyes  London  might  be  harsh  and  cruel.  Mrs.  Leonard 
had  felt  her  like  that,  seen  her  trampling  down  the  fine 
and  delicate  in  feeling  as  she  had  trampled  down  the 
fields.  But  to  Nigel  her  ruthlessness  was  part  of  her  charm. 
He  loved  her  crudity,  her  violence,  the  sense  of  rich  com- 
plicated life,  which  all  the  pain  and  dirt  and  disease  and  suf- 
fering made  more  splendidly  variegated;  he  found  in  the 
gorgeous  prodigal  just  the  colour  and  force  he  missed 
in  his  own  life  and  the  lives  of  his  friends.  He  and 
his  friends  were  civilised  to  tenuity,  but  London  remembered 
the  brute  in  man. 

40 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  41 

And  to-night  she  was  beautiful.  Hammersmith  Bridge, 
with  its  lights  like  jewels  hung  on  an  Ethiopian's  neck;  the 
road,  crammed  with  vehicles;  even  the  cars  lit  up  and  the 
violent  clanging  sky  signs  of  the  Broadway;  the  jostling  peo- 
ple in  the  road;  then  the  comparatively  open  space  along 
to  Olympia;  the  great  sweep  of  railway  lines  with  more  col- 
oured lights;  the  thick  dark  leafless  trees  of  Holland  Park; 
and  at  last,  Kensington  High  Street  with  the  spire  of  St. 
Mary  Abbott's  cleaving  the  intense  dark  violet  of  the  sky — • 
it  was  all  wonderfully,  painfully  beautiful. 

The  bus  stopped  at  the  corner;  people  got  off,  more  peo- 
ple got  on.  Nigel  leaned  over  the  side  and  watched 
the  crowds  slowly  moving  along  the  path;  across  the 
road  people  who  got  out  from  work  too  late  to  buy, 
staring  in  at  the  big  plate  glass  windows  of  Barker's  and 
Deny  and  Toms;  on  this  side  men  and  women  coming  in 
and  out  of  the  public-house  at  the  corner,  stopping  to  stare 
at  the  posters  of  the  evening  papers,  or  waiting  for  buses 
to  take  them  here  and  there,  to  other  portions  of  the 
thronging  ant-heap.  Just  in  front  was  a  taxi,  pausing 
to  take  in  a  man  in  evening  clothes  and  a  woman  with 
splendid  chestnut  hair  in  which  an  aigrette  waved:  hair  only 
a  shade  darker  than  her  orange  velvet  cloak.  Two  girls  in 
simple  evening  cloaks,  bare-headed,  with  fascinating  pink  and 
blue  slippers,  tripped  along  the  pavement. 

Nigel  sighed  with  satisfaction.  Yes,  London  was  the 
place.  All  the  strictures  they  had  so  often  passed  on  it, 
he  and  his  friends,  were  true,  no  doubt;  but  if  one  had 
to  live,  London  was  the  place.  There,  after  a  brief  re- 
adjustment, it  was  easy,  as  it  had  always  been,  to  put 
aside  troubling  questions.  There  was  no  time  for  them 
in  an  existence  packed  full  from  day  to  day  with  small 
occasions. 

As  a  journalist  the  topic  of  the  day  and  of  the  week  oc- 
cupied him;  and  in  the  world  in  which  he  moved  the  peo- 
ple were  few  who  showed  interest  in  anything  beyond.  With 
'the  men  with  whom  he  lunched  and  the  women  he  met  at 
dinner  conversation  was  easy  and  pleasant,  largely  because 


42  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

it  was  confined  to  the  surface  of  the  latest  event.  Nigel  moved 
in  a  gregarious  set  of  people  who  were  for  ever  "doing  things" 
together;  he  called  most  of  them  by  their  Christian  names 
and  all  of  them,  without  exception,  called  him  Nigel.  All 
the  members  of  the  set  were  highly  modern.  They  had  al- 
ways read  the  latest  edition  of  the  evening  paper,  seen 
the  newest  "revue";  they  read,  saw  and  heard  every- 
thing as  it  came  out.  Beyond  these  limits,  however, 
they  enjoyed,  or  professed,  a  vast  ignorance.  If  they  had 
read  an  old  book  or  seen  an  old  picture,  they  forgot,  or  at 
least  never  mentioned  it.  Reference  except  for  pur- 
poses of  demolition  to  masterpieces  more  than  twenty 
years  old  passed  as  priggish.  They  all  spoke  with  the 
utmost  contempt  of  the  accepted  great,  and  were  icono- 
clasts of  many  more  gods  than  those  of  the  market-place. 
Theoretically  they  all  scorned  success;  but  no  one  would 
have  admitted  that  any  of  the  others  was  proof  against 
it.  Hugh  Infield  was  the  only  person  clearly  in  that 
position;  but  Hugh  was  safe  against  any  dangerous  temp- 
tation. Moreover,  he  was  not,  in  the  true  sense,  one 
of  them.  In  him  the  herd-instinct  was  imperfectly  de- 
veloped. 

Some  of  them  were  politicians.  Edgar  Nugent,  for 
instance,  was  a  Liberal  member,  and  Wellesley  Drew  a 
Liberal  candidate.  The  enforced  platitudes  of  their  pub- 
lic utterances,  and  Liberal  principles  generally,  were  the 
standing  jokes  of  their  friends.  Edgar  was  rich  and 
rather  stupid,  but  his  wife  was  clever,  though  admitted 
to  be  a  snob.  They  gave  amusing  parties,  at  which 
minor  members  of  the  government  were  to  be  met,  and 
had  a  delightful  place  in  the  country.  Edgar  and  Welles- 
ley  might  be  solemn  enough  in  their  constituencies:  in 
town  their  politics  were  exclusively  backstairs.  They 
never  discussed  political  questions  except  as  throwing 
light  on  the  folly  and  incompetence  of  the  other  side  and 
the  corruption  and  gullibility  of  their  own.  Occasionally 
a  jarring  note  was  introduced  by  Lois  Drew,  who  was  a 
militant  suffragist;  but  it  was  generally  agreed  that  her  be- 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  43 

haviour  was  due  to  Wellesley's  incurable  tendency  to 
flirt  with  other  people,  and  that  she  would  cease  to  care 
about  the  vote  when  she  learned,  as  in  time  she  certainly 
would,  to  follow  his  example.  Suffrage  as  a  topic  of 
conversation  was  by  the  autumn  of  1913  rather  played 
out.  Art  was  represented  by  the  little  band  of  post 
impressionists  whom  Myrtle  Toller  was  collecting,  as  the 
main  fruit  of  her  somewhat  spasmodic  attendance  at  the 
Slade  School;  philanthropy  by  Allan  Mottershaw,  who 
had  lived,  like  every  one  else,  at  Toynbee  before  his 
marriage  and  had  a  large  independent  income;  social 
work  in  some  form  or  other  by  almost  everybody.  A 
very  large  number  of  the  men  were  civil  servants.  Most 
of  them,  including  a  fair  proportion  of  the  women,  did  work 
for  their  living,  though  not  all  lived  on  what  they  earned. 
Nearly  all  regarded  their  work  as  simply  a  means  of 
making  a  necessary,  but  never  sufficient,  amount  of 
money.  Therefore  the  daily  task  was  relegated  to  the  limbo 
of  things  not  talked  about;  and  the  larger  portion  of  exist- 
ence being  thus  devoted  to  the  dull,  monotonous  and  ugly, 
pleasure,  variety  and  excitement  had  somehow  to  be  extracted 
elsewhere. 

"Do  not  let  the  impression  of  life  as  a  whole  confound 
you":  they  might  all  have  laid  that  maxim  to  heart, 
so  thoroughly  did  they  avoid  any  contemplation  even  of 
the  smaller  unit  of  the  individual  life  as  a  whole.  Dim  some- 
where in  the  unexamined  background  it  brooded — the 
sense  that  life  as  a  whole  did  not  bear  looking  at,  that 
it  would  plunge  one  into  despair  if  one  tried.  Religion, 
the  normal  mode  of  such  contemplation,  played  no  part 
in  the  lives  of  any  of  them.  They  had  either  been 
brought  up  without  it,  like  the  Tollers,  or  reacted  early 
and  easily  from  its  conventional  observance,  like  Nigel 
himself.  Few  of  his  generation  had  got  rid  of  it  in 
the  throes  that  had  made  the  spiritual  experience  of 
their  fathers:  in  all  Nigel's  acquaintance  he  only  knew 
two  such  cases,  in  which  inferior  social  origins  had  post- 
dated normal  development.  For  the  others  the  Church 


44  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

stood  for  a  contemptible  array  of  conventional  catch- 
words. Chris  Bampton  sometimes  attended  "Higher 
Thought"  services  as  a  means  of  spiritual  hygiene,  just 
as  she  did  a  course  of  Muller  now  and  then  when  her 
muscles  got  slack.  Mottershaw  was  a  high  priest  of  the 
same  cult.  Lois  Drew  claimed  to  be  "psychic"  and 
stared  into  crystals  from  time  to  time.  But  such  views  con- 
stituted essentially  an  escape  from  "life  as  a  whole,"  to  which 
all  their  talk  about  life  and  life-forces  seldom  brought  any 
one  back. 

Nigel  felt  himself  settling  down  into  his  groove  again  with 
a  sense  of  relaxed  tension.  He  was  still  waiting;  but  waiting 
had  resumed  its  passive  character.  He  had  said  once  to 
Hugh — to  Hugh  one  could  say  anything — that  he  was  happy 
when  he  did  not  think;  and  it  was  true.  The  natural  bent  of 
his  disposition  was  towards  happiness,  he  could  easily  absorb 
himself  in  little  things.  It  was  only  now  and  then  that  there 
swept  over  him  a  wave  of  depression:  a  sense  of  the  emptiness 
and  worthlessness  of  life.  Generally  he  liked  it  well.  He 
might  agree,  at  the  moment,  with  the  passionate  anger  and  de- 
spair to  which  Gervase  O'Connor  sometimes  gave  vent;  but 
always  he  reverted  to  the  feeling  that  Gervase  was  exaggerated : 
mad  in  his  hatred  of  life,  just  as,  sometimes,  he  was  mad  in  his 
delight  in  it.  Normally  Gervase  was  merely  an  absurd 
and  rather  delightful  buffoon.  When  he  became  serious, 
when  he  pretended  to  think,  he  was  worrying  and  a  spoil- 
sport. 

A  happy  oblivion:  that  was  the  art  of  life.  Nigel  did  not 
formulate,  but  as  a  rule  he  practised  it.  As  Montevarchi  had 
obliterated  London,  so  London  now  obliterated  Montevarchi. 
Not  entirely,  however.  Every  now  and  then  Nigel  found  him- 
self thinking  of  Mrs.  Leonard:  often  she  rose  before  his  mind's 
eye.  But  he  thought  of  her  generally  not  as  an  uncomfortably 
searching  intellect,  in  whose  person  the  reality  he  at  once  sought 
and  dreaded  faced  him  with  accusatory  eyes,  but  simply  as  a 
woman,  beautiful,  poetic,  disturbing.  It  was  her  presence,  not 
her  mind,  that  haunted  him.  He  played  with  her  image,  falling 
into  unusual  silences  as  he  thought  of  it.  Mrs.  Nugent  ac- 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  45 

cused  him  of  being  in  love,  and  he  enjoyed  the  accusation. 
Every  now  and  then  his  curiosity  about  her  past  revived;  but 
for  a  long  time  he  refrained  from  speaking  to  any  one  about 
her;  something,  he  did  not  know  or  ask  himself  what,  seemed 
to  seal  his  lips. 

At  last  one  evening  he  questioned  Hugh,  plunging  straight 
in  without  any  preamble  or  introduction. 

"I  say,  Hugh,  do  tell  me  about  Mrs.  Leonard." 

He  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  tall  fender,  warming  his 
back  at  the  fire  preparatory  to  going  out  to  dinner,  and  as  he 
looked  down  upon  Infield  his  consciousness  of  freshness,  clean- 
ness, finish,  even  of  youth,  was  agreeably  heightened  by  the 
other's  lack  of  all  these  qualities.  Hugh  lay  back  in  his  usual 
chair,  obviously  tired  out,  his  long  legs  crossed  and  one  muddy 
shoe  held  out  to  the  fire.  His  hair  needed  cutting,  and  looked 
greyer  than  usual.  Pushed  back  from  his  forehead,  it  showed 
the  deep  lines  in  his  brow.  He  had  taken  off  his  spectacles  and 
was  rubbing  them  on  a  large  silk  handkerchief  while  he  stared 
before  him  out  of  his  short-sighted  eyes.  He  stayed  so  long 
without  answering  that  Nigel  wondered  whether  he  had  heard 
the  question  and  was  about  to  repeat  it  when  Hugh  growled 
out,  as  he  replaced  his  handkerchief,  while  still  leaving  his 
spectacles  on  his  knee,  "Haven't  I  told  you  time  and  again 
to  read  her?  "  He  hunched  his  shoulder  in  the  direction  of  the 
bookcases  along  the  wall.  "Her  books  will  tell  you  a  great  deal 
more  than  I  could,  if  you  take  the  trouble  to  look  inside.  She 
doesn't  write  like  Henry  James — you  could  understand  her  if 
you  wanted  to." 

Nigel  laughed.  "Oh,  I  daresay.  But  writing  seems  to  me 
a  long  way  round.  And  after  all,  the  writer  must  be  more  than 
the  book.  You  don't  agree?  " 

Infield's  eyes  were  on  the  fire. 

"No.  Not  with  good  writers.  But  it's  partly  true  of  her, 
though  she  is  good.  When  I  say  you  could  understand,  I  don't 
mean  that  you  could  appreciate  her. " 

Nigel  at  this  laughed  outright. 

"Oh — but  appreciate  is  just  what  I  do.  I  have  seen  her, 
you  see." 


46  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

"Then  why  ask  me?" 

"Oh,  because  you  know  her.  I  have  only  spent  ten  days 
in  her  company. " 

"I  at  least  have  read  her,"  Infield  corrected.  "Yes — and 
I  know  her — or  did.  But  in  ten  days  I  daresay  you  saw  a  great 
deal.  There's  a  great  deal  to  see;  and  she  used  not  to  go  in  for 
concealment;  it  was  against  her  theory. " 

Nigel  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  pondering  on  this. 
"She  frightens  me,  rather, "  he  said  at  last. 

"Too  generous,  eh?"  Infield's  eyes  were  now  fixed  upon 
his  friend,  and  if  Nigel  had  been  looking  at  him  he  might  have 
been  struck  with  the  way  in  which  something,  possibly  the 
removal  of  his  perpetual  glasses,  had  diminished  his  years.  But 
Nigel  was  not  looking  at  Infield,  he  was  inspecting  the  bottom 
of  his  own  trousers,  just  a  trifle  frayed. 

"She  made  me  feel  small,"  he  said. 

Infield  shrugged  his  shoulders  a  trifle  impatiently.  "Oh, 
my  dear  Strode,  of  course  if  you  spent  your  time  in  feeling 
yourself  instead  of  her,  no  wonder  you  have  to  come  to  me  for 
information. " 

Nigel  had  turned  round  and  was  playing  a  little  nervously 
with  the  objects  on  the  mantelpiece.  Infield  regarded  his 
immaculate  back,  slim  and  boyish,  and  the  fair  bent  head,  with 
an  expression  in  which  many  feelings  mingled.  A  smile  just 
curved  his  lips  as  he  went  on — 

"I  suppose  you  fell  in  love  with  her — most  people  do." 

Nigel  turned  round  quickly. 

"That's  the  worrying  part  of  it — I  don't  really  know 
whether  I  did  or  not.  The  first  two  days  I  was  sure  I  had— 
but  then  we  got  involved  in  politics  and — do  you  know — she 
almost  bored  me.  She  went  on,  simply  tirelessly,  about  foreign 
policy  of  all  things — and  got  tremendously  angry  with  me  be- 
cause I  wouldn't  take  it  seriously  enough.  I  didn't  mind  her 
talking,  because  she's  got  the  most  perfect  voice,  but  when  she 
expected  me  to  answer  I  was  simply  lost.  Then  the  next  day 

she  seemed  to  have  given  all  that  up  again  and  I  was Well, 

I  don't  know  where  I  was.  But  I  kept  feeling,  at  the  moments 
when  I  hadn't  completely  lost  my  head,  cold  shudders  of  anxiety, 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  47 

about  what  I  don't  know.  But  it  got  more  and  more  on  my 
nerves.  So  at  last  I  fled. " 

"How  do  you  mean,  fled?" 

"Why,  one  morning  I  sent  myself  a  telegram  and  came 
straight  back.  Oh,  you  may  laugh,  Hugh;  I  feel  an  awful 
idiot,  now,  and  the  thought  of  meeting  her  again  actually  alarms 
me,  though  in  a  way  I  long  to  meet  her  again  and  think  about 
her  a  lot.  But  she  gave  me  the  feeling  that  I  was  not  real.  Do 
you  ever  feel  that?" 

Infield  had  replaced  his  spectacles  and  was  now  gazing  into 
the  fire. 

' '  No, ' '  he  said.  ' '  What  I  do  feel,  constantly,  is  that  nothing 
else  is  real. " 

Nigel  looked  at  him. 

"You  are  a  queer  fish,  Infield.  Do  you  know,  I  don't  be- 
lieve I  know  you,  after  all  this  time?" 

Infield  lay  back  in  his  chair,  smiling. 

"Really?"  he  said.  "Well,  it  isn't  at  all  necessary.  Here 
I  am — and  here  I  shall  be  to  the  end  of  this  chapter,  for  good  or 
ill.  Now,  you  are  another  matter. " 

"You  mean  I'm  still  fluid. " 

"Amazingly  so  for  a  man  of — what  is  it?    Thirty-seven?" 

"Thirty-eight,"  said  Nigel  gloomily.     "Two  days  ago." 

Hugh  did  not  seem  to  feel  the  tragedy. 

"Thirty-eight — and  still  fluid — with  life  floating  all  round 
you  in  a  wondrous  haze!  I  suppose  that's  it.  ...  I  say,  you 
will  be  late  for  dinner,  however  fashionable  the  Nugents'  hour 
has  now  become.  That's  a  quarter  past." 

Nigel  looked  at  his  watch,  though  his  quick  ears  had  caught 
the  chime. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  said  easily,  "it's  all  right.  It's  at  the  Savoy. 
I  believe  Daphne  Leonard  is  to  be  there.  Do  you  know  her?" 

"Daphne?  Oh,  yes.  That  I  say  with  some  certainty,  odd 
though  it  may  seem  in  the  case  of  a  girl  of  twenty-two.  I  know 
Daphne.  She's  not  fluid.  .  .  .  Run  off  and  meet  her.  She'll 
help  to  clarify  your  ideas  about  her  mother!" 

"But  they're  not  in  the  least  alike. " 

"Aren't  they?    How  do  you  know?" 


48  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

"Oh,  I've  seen  her  picture." 

Infield  laughed. 

"Oh,  the  things  you  see!" 

Returning  towards  midnight  from  a  sufficiently  entertaining 
dinner,  at  which,  however,  Daphne  Leonard  had  not  been 
present,  Nigel  found  Hugh  still  up.  He  was  sitting  with  a  book 
on  his  knees,  but  not  reading.  He  raised  his  eyes  when  his 
friend  entered,  but  made  no  remark.  Nigel  knew  him  well 
enough  to  say  nothing  either.  There  were  times  when  Hugh 
seemed  incapable  of  speech,  and  sometimes  they  lasted  for  days. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

AUTUMN  became  winter :  Christmas  passed  and  a  new  year 
began.  Not  till  well  on  in  February  did  Nigel  manage  to 
get  down  to  Melbury  to  spend  a  week-end  with  his  brother 
and  sister.  He  really  had  been  busy,  for  it  took  the  office  some 
time  to  adjust  itself  to  the  absence  of  Davis,  though  the  burden 
fell  mainly  on  the  broad  shoulders  of  the  sub-editor,  Mr.  Rob- 
inson. He  arrived  after  a  very  chilly  drive  out  from  Cambridge, 
feeling  rather  cross  and  tired.  Juliet,  his  sister,  accepted  that 
as  quite  natural  and  just.  All  men,  and  especially  men  who 
worked  with  their  heads,  had  a  right  to  be  cross.  It  was  a  right 
of  which  all  those  with  whom  she  had  ever  had  anything  to  do, 
from  her  late  father  downwards,  had  taken  the  fullest  advantage. 
A  woman  found  her  satisfaction  in  soothing  and  smoothing  them 
back  to  amiability:  and  Nigel  was  delightfully  easy  to  soothe, 
and  seldom  even  a  little  cross.  She  kissed  her  brother  tenderly, 
inquired  about  his  journey  without  expecting  an  answer,  poked 
the  fire  in  his  room,  offered  to  unpack  his  bag,  felt  the  can  of  hot 
water  to  see  that  it  was  really  hot,  and  murmured  that  dinner 
was  in  half-an-hour. 

When  Nigel  came  downstairs,  his  normal  happy  temper  was 
restored  by  the  fact  that  he  was  now  clean,  and  smelt  of  fresh 
soap  instead  of  stale  tobacco,  other  people's  tobacco,  for  he  rare- 
ly smoked,  and  never  in  the  train.  Juliet  was  waiting  for  him 
in  the  drawing-room,  attired  in  the  dark  red  evening  frock  in 
which  she  went  to  small  parties,  not  the  black  which  she  wore 
every  night  at  home.  She  indicated  the  softest  of  the  many  soft 
chairs,  by  an  admirable  fire.  On  a  small  table  near  it  lay  papers, 
the  Hibbert  Journal  and  the  Contemporary,  and  H.  G.  Wells's 

49 


50  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

new  novel.  Stephen,  who  was  a  clergyman,  was  broad  in  reli- 
gion and  a  Liberal  in  politics,  though  the  1909  Budget  had  been 
a  shock  from  which  he  had  never  quite  recovered.  Juliet's 
gesture  and  her  smile  indicated  that  if  Nigel  preferred  to  read, 
she  quite  understood  and  would  not  bother  him.  When  he  said 
no,  he  had  rather  talk  to  her,  she  flushed  up  quickly.  She  had 
a  face  like  a  sweet  rosy  apple,  not  pretty,  but  charming  from  the 
candour  of  her  clear  pale  eyes,  set  rather  too  far  apart,  and  the 
ready  smile  that  made  them  shine.  Before  Nigel  had  done 
more  than  ask  her  how  things  were  going  in  the  parish,  the  Rev. 
Stephen  Strode  himself  appeared.  Physically,  Stephen  was 
the  link  between  the  graceful  slightness  of  his  brother  and  the 
soft  roundness  of  his  sister.  He  was  taller  than  Nigel,  but  his 
frame  was  amply  covered,  and  his  features,  though  well  cut,  too 
small  for  his  large  smooth  face.  He  had  Nigel's  self -conscious- 
ness without  his  nerves;  Juliet  had  the  nerves  without  self-con- 
sciousness. Not  that  any  one  credited  her  with  nerves,  least 
of  all  herself.  She  had  no  time  to  think  about  them.  Stephen 
was  good-looking  at  a  certain  angle,  but  it  was  an  angle  difficult 
to  find,  though  always  presented,  by  a  happy  accident  of  light- 
ing, in  his  own  pulpit.  His  parishioners  regarded  him  as  a  hand- 
some man;  a  view  helped  by  the  fact  that  he  shared  it,  also  by 
his  single  state.  As  he  came  in  now,  rubbing  his  large,  soft, 
well-made  hands  together,  his  brother,  rising  to  return  his 
greeting,  received  his  usual  impression  that  Stephen  was  a 
success.  It  was  not  an  impression  that  held;  in  London,  any- 
where but  in  Melbury,  it  evaporated;  but  in  Melbury  it  was 
like  an  aroma.  To  be  so  eminently  pleased  was  surely  a  success, 
to  which  Nigel  felt  he  could  present,  on  his  own  account,  nothing 
comparable.  The  less  you  had  to  be  pleased  about,  the  stronger, 
surely,  was  your  moral  position;  it  testified  to  such  solidity 
within. 

"Well,"  said  Stephen  cheerily,  "and  how  is  the  great  world 
wagging?" 

He  always  couched  his  opening  remarks  to  Nigel  in  some 
such  phrase,  as  if  to  pay  a  tribute  to  his  nominally  central 
position  on  a  London  paper.  It  was,  however,  as  his  brother 
well  knew,  his  conviction  that  a  truer  view  of  main  currents  was 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  51 

to  be  got  in  Melbury.  Melbury,  or  at  any  rate  the  Vicarage, 
was  thoroughly  abreast  of  the  times.  To  be  within  three  miles 
of  Cambridge  removed  all  danger  of  provincialism.  Cambridge 
was,  by  its  own  admission,  the  hub  of  the  universe. 

Nigel  intimated  that  the  great  world  was  much  as  usual; 
a  small  and  tedious  place,  he  found  it. 

"Rapid  motion,  you  know,"  he  said,  "doesn't  involve  one's 
getting  anywhere.  One  revolves  fastest  round  a  fixed  point." 

Juliet  looked  at  him  with  large  round  eyes. 

"Ah!"  said  Stephen,  "you  always  were  an  optimist." 

Nigel  did  not  see  the  particular  connection,  nor  was  he  pre- 
pared to  accept  the  general  definition.  Stephen  went  on,  as 
they  moved  into  the  dining-room.  "Personally  I  see  signs  every- 
where that  make  me  fear  we  are  on  the  verge  of  very  serious 
change.  Things  are  bad,  Nigel,  very  bad.  Parliament  has 
fallen  into  utter  contempt,  as  is  not  surprising.  The  spirit  of 
the  people  seems  to  me  deplorable.  Lloyd  George  has  de- 
bauched them;  they  think  of  nothing  but  spoliation  and  material 
gain. " 

"Really?"  Nigel  regarded  his  brother  with  mild  amuse- 
ment. It  was  odd  to  find  Lloyd  George  discussed  in  this  serious 
strain. 

"Yes,  indeed."  Stephen  was  carving  a  saddle  of  mutton 
with  consummate  delicacy,  a  kind  of  sustained  tenderness. 
"The  recent  strikes  have  been  disgraceful,  quite  disgraceful. 
They  shake  one's  confidence  in  England,  and  living  here  it  is 
impossible  not  to  see  that  the  young  generation  of  our  class  is 
little  better;  little  calculated  to  set  an  example.  Our  young  men 
are  without  discipline  and  without  ideals.  .  .  .  Do  try  that 
Burgundy,  you  won't  find  it  so  bad.  .  .  .  Yes,  judged  by  the 
two  tests  which  one  should  apply  to  a  nation,  our  condition  is 
bad." 

Nigel  smiled  as  he  recalled  a  recent  evening,  in  the  course 
of  which  Jimmy  O'Connor  and  two  friends  of  his  had  roundly 
declared  ideals  to  be  the  source  of  all  evil  and  a  relic  of  Vic- 
torian hypocrisy  and  cant. 

' '  What  are  your  two  tests? ' '  he  said.  ' '  I  wonder  if  we  should 
agree  about  them?" 


52  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

Stephen  looked  at  his  brother.  There  was  a  slight  asperity 
in  his  voice  as  he  replied:  " I  daresay  not,  Nigel.  I  do  not  read 
the  New  World  quite  regularly,  there  are  so  many  things  one 
must  read,  but  Juliet  does,  I  believe,  and  she  generally  tells  me 
if  there  is  anything  outstanding.  I  am  familiar,  however,  with 
its  general  tone.  .  .  .  Yes,  a  little  more  cauliflower,  Juliet, 
please. " 

Juliet  took  advantage  of  the  momentary  diversion — her 
tactics  were  simple  and  transparent  enough — to  ask  her  younger 
brother  how  he  would  define  the  two  tests. 

Nigel  felt  too  lazy  to  think  out  a  definition  of  his  own,  nor 
was  the  company  worth  it;  but  it  was  easy  enough  to  resume  the 
course  of  many  familiar  arguments.  This  he  did,  as  he  said: 
"I  should  say  the  condition  of  labour  and  the  position  of  art. 
If  I  had  to  answer  these  questions  at  the  moment,  for  England, 
I  should  not  feel  very  happy.  But  Stephen  doesn't  accept  my 
classification,  I  see,  so  that  he  need  not  be  affected  by  my 
answer. " 

Stephen,  in  fact,  almost  snorted.  "Indeed,  I  do  not.  It 
is  because  most  people,  of  the  sort,  that  is,  which  expresses  itself 
freely  in  the  press,  ask  those  superficial  questions,  that  they  go 
wrong.  The  condition  of  labour  and  of  art  are  essentially 
secondary;  they  are  not  the  root  of  the  matter;  there  are  deeper 
questions.  What  is  called  great  art  in  particular  is  often  the 
flower  of  a  rotten  civilisation;  when  people  begin  to  think  too 
much  about  art,  when  they  regard  it  as  fundamental,  they  are 
already  on  the  down  grade.  I  have  feared  that  we  might  be 
in  that  danger  in  England,  the  danger  of  thinking  art  more 
important  than  life." 

"I  don't  think  you  need  worry  about  that,  Stephen.  The 
number  of  people  in  London  who  think  art  really  important 
would,  I  fancy,  be  quite  reassuring  to  you. " 

"As  for  labour,"  Stephen  swept  on,  "I  have  long  thought 
the  preoccupation  with  material  things  the  chief  weakness  of 
modern  Socialism — I  speak,  you  know,  as  a  Socialist. " 

He  waved  his  hand,  presumably  towards  the  row  of  books 
on  the  white  shelf  above  the  small  spindle-legged  writing  table 
with  its  back  to  the  light.  There,  as  Nigel  knew,  the  Minority 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  53 

Report  of  the  Poor  Law  Commission  (bound)  rested  side  by  side 
with  The  Condition  of  England  and  Poverty,  a  Study  of  Town  Life. 
His  eyes  wandered  from  the  book  case  over  the  room,  noting  all 
the  details  of  its  elaborately  simple  comfort.  Stephen  had  sold 
the  old  furniture  when  he  moved  into  Melbury,  and  replaced 
the  heavy  mahogany  and  horsehair  with  Jacobean  oak,  the 
Sheffield  plate  with  Liberty  pewter,  and  the  old  Indian  carpets 
with  patternless  velvet  pile.  The  pictures  had  gone  too,  the 
queer  coloured  prints  which  Nigel  remembered  in  the  old  dining- 
room,  and  the  heavy  oil  paintings  of  earlier  Strodes;  instead 
there  was  a  long,  beaten  pewter  plaque  over  the  white  mantel- 
shelf, and  a  mirror  above  the  oak  dresser,  that  was  all.  Pewter 
evidently  had  some  spiritual  or  aesthetic  significance  for  Stephen, 
for  the  fruit  and  sweet  dishes  were  in  that  metal,  and  the  fittings 
of  the  electric  light.  It  stood,  perhaps,  for  cultured  simplicity, 
like  the  leadless  glaze  plates  and  the  heavy  cut  glass  out  of 
which  Stephen  drank  his  port.  Simplicity  of  this  conscious 
and  expensive  kind  was  familiar  to  Nigel,  who  was  used  to  draw- 
ing-rooms with  brick  floors,  inglenooks,  and  raftered  ceilings. 
He  turned  back  from  it  all  to  ask  Stephen  what  his  two  criteria 
were.  Stephen  would  expound  them  some  time  or  other,  to 
give  him  his  head  saved  trouble.  He  knew  that  it  was  vain  to 
attempt  to  direct  conversation  into  other  channels  in  the  hope 
of  saving  Juliet  and  himself  from  well-worn  platitudes. 

Stephen  was  pleased.  He  passed  the  port  and  turning  the 
stem  of  his  glass  in  his  long  fingers — his  rich  voice  and  fine  hands 
were  his  natural  gifts  for  a  successful  ecclesiastic,  beautifully 
displayed  in  asking  a  blessing — leaned  back  in  his  chair  and 
spoke  impressively. 

"I  have  seen  for  some  time  that  we  are,  as  a  nation,  getting 
slack,  set  on  comfort,  unable  to  make  sacrifices,  blind  to  spirit- 
ual things.  Patriotism  and  religion  are  the  mainsprings  of  a 
sound  national  life.  I  fear  this  generation  is  dead  to  both. " 

His  sonorous  voice  flowed  on,  but  Nigel  did  not  listen,  until 
suddenly  recalled  by  his  sister's  voice. 

"Of  course,"  Stephen  was  saying,  "I  hate  militarism,  the 
Prussian  system.  But  national  service  is  a  very  different  thing. 
Discipline  is  what  our  people  need,  discipline  and  the  power  to 


54  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

make  sacrifices.  As  it  is,  their  idea  is  to  get  everything  from 
the  State. " 

"I  thought,"  Juliet  interposed,  and  it  was  practically  the 
first  time  she  had  spoken,  "that  was  what  we  women  were  al- 
ways reproached  for,  making  sacrifices  just  for  the  sake  of 
it." 

Stephen  dismissed  the  irrelevance  with  a  plump  hand. 
Juliet,  Nigel  saw,  had  failed  to  convert  him  to  Suffrage.  He 
was  not  the  man  to  be  converted  to  anything  by  a  sister  who 
made  him  so  comfortable.  But  the  interruption  enabled  a  move 
to  be  made  to  the  drawing-room.  There  the  hot  fire  and 
cushioned  ease  of  his  chair  disposed  Stephen  to  repose. 

Juliet  attempted  a  diversion. 

"Nigel,  you've  told  us  nothing  about  Italy.  Or  is  it  so  long 
ago  that  in  your  busy  life  you've  forgotten  all  about  it?  " 

Nigel  smiled.  Nothing  made  him  appear  in  his  own  eyes  so 
second-rate  as  Juliet's  simple  wonderment.  To  her,  he  was,  he 
knew,  a  brilliant  creature,  leading  in  the  great  world  of  London 
a  rich  and  complicated  life.  She  saw  him  at  the  focus  of  the 
whirling  forces  that  made  progress  the  mysterious,  splendid  and 
rather  terrible  thing  it  was.  She  listened  to  him  as  to  a  prophet, 
and  he  never  seemed  to  himself  so  platitudinous  as  when  he  met 
her  wide-open  eyes  and  saw  her  lips  part  in  mute  amazement. 
She  thought  him  much  more  remarkable  than  Stephen.  There 
Nigel  had  to  agree.  Stephen  basked  in  the  relatively  smaller 
meed  of  admiration  given  him  and  had  grown  mentally  sleek 
on  it,  just  as  he  was  becoming  physically  rotund  on  the  excel- 
lence of  his  sister's  cuisine.  But  Nigel  felt  himself  reduced  to 
his  real  insignificance  by  her  ingenuous  simplicity  and  absence 
of  saving  comparisons.  A  world  in  which  he  bulked  as  brilliant 
was  a  poor  affair.  True,  any  career  might  well  look  striking, 
any  world  might  seem  large,  from  the  close-shut  windows  of  the 
vicarage.  To  count  as  small  in  the  eyes  of  Aurelia  Leonard  was 
distinguished  in  comparison. 

The  mention  of  Italy  had  set  her  vividly  before  him.  For 
the  last  few  weeks  she  had  been  little  in  his  thoughts.  Grad- 
ually the  mere  passage  of  time  had  blurred  his  sharp  impres- 
sions, and  on  the  whole  he  had  been  glad  that  it  was  so.  Hugh 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  55 

had  told  him  nothing  about  her,  and  he  felt  a  shyness  most 
unusual  and  impossible  to  explain  to  himself,  in  broaching  the 
subject  with  any  of  his  other  friends.  Mabel  Nugent's  jesting 
assertion  that  he  was  in  love  had  sealed  his  lips,  as  far  as  she  was 
concerned.  To  ask  her  about  Mrs.  Leonard  would,  to  her  in- 
geniously active  mind,  have  supplied  all  the  pieces  of  her  puzzle. 
As  Mrs.  Leonard  was  coming  to  town  in  the  summer,  that 
would  have  introduced  an  unnecessary  complication,  and  he 
must  be  content  to  accept  the  mystery.  He  had  felt  an  interest 
in  the  prospect  of  making  her  daughter's  acquaintance,  but 
after  the  failure  of  the  first  occasion  he  had  decided  that  he  did 
not  particularly  desire  to  know  Daphne.  In  addition  to  every 
other  awkwardness  she  was  intimate  with  Myrtle  Toller,  whom 
he  had  decided  it  was  convenient  not  to  see  for  a  time. 

"Italy!"  he  said.  "Oh,  Italy  was  wonderful.  No,  I  never 
got  to  Siena,  nor  Ravenna  either. " 

Juliet  stared  at  him,  amazed.     She  had  never  been  to  Italy. 

"  I  had  meant  to  go.  But  I  went  out  to  see  a  friend  of  mine 
who  has  a  house  in  the  country,  near  Florence,  and  it  was  so 
lovely  there  that  I  got  no  further.  You  read  novels,  Juley, 
perhaps  you  have  read  some  of  hers?  A  Mrs.  Leonard?  " 

It  was  most  improbable,  as  he  knew,  that  Juliet  had  done 
anything  of  the  kind,  but  he  felt  a  sudden  desire  to  utter 
Aurelia  Leonard's  name,  to  talk  of  her. 

Juliet  shook  her  head,  but  her  puzzled  expression  suggested 
that  the  name  was  not  altogether  unfamiliar.  She  turned  to 
her  elder  brother. 

"Stephen,  you  know  about  Mrs.  Leonard,  I'm  sure." 

Stephen  roused  himself.  His  expression  was  that  of  the 
clergyman  of  the  parish,  with  nostrils  drawn  down  and  lips 
pursed. 

"Mrs.  Leonard?  Certainly  I  do.  But  it  is  not  a  story  I 
should  wish  to  tell  you,  Juliet. " 

Nigel  felt  an  inclination  to  laugh.  It  seemed  too  paradoxical 
that  after  casting  about  so  long  for  some  one  who  could  tell 
him  Mrs.  Leonard's  story,  he  should  run  it  to  earth  in  Melbury 
Vicarage. 

"Do  tell  it  to  me  though,  Stephen.     She's  quite  the  most 


56  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

interesting  and  charming  woman  I  have  ever  met,  and  extra- 
ordinarily distinguished  too.  Has  she  committed  one  of  the 
seven  deadly  sins?" 

He  spoke  jestingly,  but  the  stern  expression  of  Stephen's 
face  did  not  relax. 

"Surely,"  he  said,  "you  remember  Richard  Leonard?" 

Nigel  shook  his  head.  The  name  was,  he  declared,  without 
associations  for  him.  Mrs.  Leonard  was  the  only  Leonard  of 
whom  he  had  ever  heard. 

"But  tell  me  about  Richard.     Was  he  a  friend  of  yours?" 

"Not  exactly,"  said  Stephen;  "I  only  met  him  once  or 
twice,  but  Uncle  James  used  to  talk  so  often  of  him  that  I  should 
have  thought  you  must  remember  him.  He  was  a  great  favour- 
ite of  his;  they  were  in  India  together.  Leonard  was  a  subaltern 
in  Uncle  James's  regiment." 

"Oh,  he  was  in  the  army."  Nigel's  tone  suggested  that 
Richard  Leonard  was  disposed  of.  "But  it  is  Mrs.  Leonard 
I'm  interested  in.  Tell  me  about  her. " 

Stephen  sat  up. 

"All  I  know  about  Mrs.  Leonard  is  that  she  deserted  her 
husband,  went  off,  abandoned  him,  and  that,  in  so  far  as  I 
ever  gathered,  without  the  slightest  excuse.  Colonel  Leonard — 
he  was  a  Colonel  when  it  happened — was,  from  all  I  have  heard, 
a  most  amiable  man:  Uncle  James  was  devoted  to  him. " 

"Then  why,"  said  Nigel,  "did  she  leave  him?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Apparently  she  was  impossibly  ex- 
igeante. " 

"Do  you  mean" — Nigel  was  still  curious — "that  Colonel 
Leonard  was  unfaithful  to  her?" 

Stephen  winced,  and  glanced  at  Juliet. 

"I  think  it  not  improbable,"  he  said  acidly.  "Even  if  it 
were  so,  are  we  not  told  to  forgive  to  seventy  times  seven? 
The  real  reason  seems  to  have  lain  in  her  temper,  not  in  his. " 

"I  see,"  said  Nigel  thoughtfully.  He  was  silent  for  a  few 
moments.  "She  didn't,  I  suppose,  divorce  him?" 

"Oh,  no,  of  course  not."  Stephen  looked  horrified.  "Be- 
sides, she  left  him,  so  of  course  she  had  no  legal  status. " 

"I  see,"  said  Nigel  again,  smiling  slightly.     He  looked  at 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  57 

his  sister,  who  was  busy  counting  stitches.  "But  was  it  sug- 
gested that  she  went  of!  with  any  one?  " 

"Colonel  Leonard  was  always  most  chivalrous.  He  would 
never  say  who  it  was.  But  yes,  I  gather  there  was  some  one. 
Anyhow,  my  impression  of  the  whole  affair  was  exceedingly  un- 
favourable to  her. " 

Nigel  nodded.  Of  course  it  would  be.  Nor  would,  he 
thought,  a  meeting  with  Mrs.  Leonard  improve  the  case  in 
Stephen's  eyes.  "Impossible" — yes,  he  would  certainly  find 
her  impossible.  Nigel  himself  could  easily  imagine  that  she 
might  have  been  difficult. 

"Is  Colonel  Leonard  alive?"  he  said. 

"Oh,  no,  he  was  killed  in  South  Africa,  after  being  mentioned, 
I  think,  in  dispatches. " 

Nigel  relapsed  into  silence.  Stephen  had  given  him  much 
to  think  about. 

Juliet  came  up  with  him  to  his  room,  where  they  separated 
for  the  night.  After  again  seeing  to  everything,  and  looking 
dcprecatingly  at  the  row  of  books  in  the  carved  stand  over  the 
writing-table — she  had  carefully  selected  them,  but  it  was  not 
likely  there  would  be  anything  in  the  house  which  he  would  care 
to  read — she  still  hovered  about,  as  though  waiting  for  some- 
thing, for  that  intimacy,  perhaps,  which  Nigel  felt  with  a  twinge 
no  one  in  the  world  probably  gave  to  her.  Certainly  not 
Stephen;  he  had  no  such  thing  in  his  composition  to  give.  Nor 
could  Nigel  fancy  that  he  himself  made  a  satisfactory  substitute. 
He  saw  Juliet  so  seldom.  She  did  not  belong,  she  never  had 
belonged,  to  his  real  life.  Poor  Juliet,  had  she  a  real  life  of  her 
own?  He  laid  a  hand  affectionately  on  her  shoulder  as  she  stood 
by  him.  Juliet  flushed  up  instantly.  A  moment  of  embar- 
rassed silence  followed.  Each  was  conscious  of  it,  each  wished 
to  break  it.  Nigel  could  think  of  nothing  intimate  to  say  to 
his  sister.  He  did  not  know  his  way  about  her  world,  and  there 
seemed  nothing  out  of  his  own  that  he  could  bring  up.  Cer- 
tainly he  could  not  tell  her  about  Aurelia  Leonard.  He  lost 
himself  in  the  endeavour  to  frame  any  account  of  her  and  of  his 
feelings  about  her  that  would  serve  in  talking  about  her  to 
any  one.  Juliet's  voice  broke  in  upon  his  thoughts. 


58  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

"Nigel  ...  I  never  said  anything  to  you  about  .  .  .  about 
your  engagement.  But  you  knew,  didn't  you,  that  I  felt,  oh 
very  sorry?  It  must  all  have  been  such  a  sadness  for  you; 
and  she  looks  so  attractive." 

Nigel  awoke  with  a  start. 

"My  engagement?"  he  said  sharply,  removing  his  hand 
from  his  sister's  shoulder,  where  it  had  rested  while  he  dreamed. 
"I  wasn't  engaged  to  Myrtle  Toller — if  you  mean  her." 

Juliet  flushed  painfully. 

"  I'msorry, "  she  stammered;  "  I  use  words  wrongly,  I  know." 

"It's  perfectly  intolerable,  the  way  people  talk."  Nigel 
broke  out  into  anger.  "Can't  two  people  be  interested  enough 
in  one  another  to  ...  to  discover  how  far  and  no  further  their 
interest  goes,  without  everybody  making  absurd  assumptions 
about  them?" 

"I'm  sorry,"  Juliet  murmured  again.  "It's  my  fault.  I 
didn't  want  to  seem  curious,  Nigel,  and  I  promise  you  I've  never 
talked  about  it  with  any  one;  only  it  seemed  such  a  nice  plan. 
She's  so  nice,  and  you've  always  liked  them  all  so  much,  so  that 
I  hoped " 

Her  words  died  away  in  an  indistinct  quaver.  Nigel, 
realizing  that  the  break  in  her  voice  was  an  attempt  to  conceal 
that  she  was  crying,  felt  a  little  ashamed  of  his  outburst.  He 
took  the  hand  near  him  and  patted  it  vaguely.  Juliet  swallowed 
a  sob. 

"It  would  be  so  delightful  if  you  found  the  right  person, 
you  see,  Nigel,  that  I  can't  help  wanting  it  to  happen. " 

Nigel  stared  darkly  into  the  fire. 

"  I  don't  think  it  ever  will, "  he  said. 

"Oh,  don't  say  that!"  cried  his  sister;  "it  would  be  such  a 
dreadful  pity." 

Nigel  was  silent.     He  was  thinking  about  himself. 

"Anyhow,"  he  brought  out  at  last,  "Myrtle  was  quite  the 
wrong  person.  So  you  needn't  be  sorry  for  me  about  that." 

But  Juliet  was  now  crying  softly. 

"Cheer  up,  dear,"  said  her  brother,  again  patting  her  hand. 
"I'm  all  right.  These  things  aren't  so  bad  after  thirty,  you 
know. " 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  59 

" But  it  must  have  been  horrible, "  wailed  Juliet.  "Finding 
any  one  out  is  so  dreadful. " 

Something  in  her  expression  struck  her  brother.  Why  had 
she  assumed  that  he  had  "found  Myrtle  out,"  as  she  put  it? 

"Perhaps  she  found  me  out."     He  smiled  a  little  wryly. 

Juliet  blinked,  to  clear  her  eyes  of  tears.  The  notion 
evidently  struck  her  as  absurd. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said,  "I'm  sure  that  wasn't  it.  Don't  think 
I  want  to  ask,  Nigel,  really  I  don't.  But,  of  course,  I  know  you, 
I  know  that  it  was  the  other  way  round.  And  that  must  have 
been  dreadful  for  you. " 

Nigel  partially  concealed  a  yawn. 

"Oh,  you  must  be  tired,  after  your  work.  I  ought  not  to  be 
staying  here,  keeping  you  up." 

Her  tears  were  dried,  her  voice  and  manner  had  recovered 
their  maternal,  elder  sisterly  quality. 

"I  hope  you'll  sleep  well,"  she  murmured. 

Nigel  kissed  her  rather  absently,  and  stood,  for  some  time 
after  she  had  softly  closed  the  door,  on  the  spot  where  she  had 
left  him,  thinking.  A  family  was  certainly  a  curious  institution: 
mysterious  alike  the  closeness  and  remoteness  of  one's  blood 
relations.  Stephen  and  Juliet  were  his  nearest,  his  only  near 
relatives,  but  if  they  had  not  been  related,  could  he  ever  have 
selected  them  as  friends?  They  resembled  in  no  way  the  friends 
he  had  selected ;  they  might  indeed  have  belonged  to  a  different 
world.  It  was  not  only  that  the  form  of  their  lives  was  alien, 
the  things  they  did,  the  way  they  lived  from  day  to  day.  Their 
mental  make-up,  the  ideas  among  which  they  moved,  were 
strange.  Or  rather,  his  ideas  were  strange  to  them,  his  way  of 
life  inexplicable.  He  was  of  his  own  generation;  but  of  what 
generation  were  they?  Stephen  was  three  and  Juliet  one  and  a 
half  years  his  senior,  but  they  were  further  from  him  than  the 
young  men  and  women  fresh  from  the  Universities,  whom  he 
met  in  London  or  at  the  Tollers'.  The  obsolescence  of  Stephen's 
world  might  be  due  to  his  profession;  of  Juliet's  to  her  woman- 
liness. But  it  was  strange  that  they  seemed  so  satisfied,  so 
unconscious  of  the  world  beyond.  Juliet  was  nearly  forty, 
Stephen  had  passed  that  grim  milestone;  and  yet  on  the  long 


60  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

road  nothing,  it  seemed,  had  happened  to  them.  He  saw  them 
at  long  intervals,  but  they  never  seemed  to  change.  Yet 
Stephen  was  a  mature  man,  Juliet  a  mature  woman;  though  to 
him  they  were  the  indescribable  age  they  always  had  been,  that 
he  was,  he  supposed,  himself.  It  was  odd  to  recall  how  in  boy- 
hood one  had  looked  forward  to  middle  age  as  a  period  with  de- 
fined characteristics.  In  reality  it  slipped  upon  one  unnoticed. 
It  was  accomplished  and  one  knew  it  not. 

As  he  turned  to  undress,  he  suddenly  stood  still.  Was  it 
possible  that  his  share  of  their  illusion  was  the  measure  of  his 
kinship?  Was  his  London  life  after  all  as  narrow  in  its  own  way, 
and  his  acceptance  of  it  equally  self-sufficient?  Mrs.  Leonard 
had  said  things  that  seemed  to  suggest  it. 

Had  Nigel  Strode  been  disposed  to  continue  his  reflections 
on  the  mysteries  of  family  life,  he  might  have  found  much  food 
next  day  at  the  Tollers'.  But  he  knew  the  Toller  household  too 
well,  from  other  points  of  view,  to  see  it  as  a  family  picture.  It 
had  dissolved,  like  one's  own  family,  into  units,  and  the  units 
stood  for  too  many  theories  to  be  viewed  as  grouped  in  a  land- 
scape smaller  than  the  whole  of  modern  life.  It  was  only 
that  the  details  had  been  organised  into  so  perfect  a  routine — 
Lady  Toller  had  been  sacrificed,  by  the  pressure  of  years,  to 
that  organisation — that  one  sometimes  had  an  illusory  vision  of 
the  household  as  a  whole. 

That  he  should  spend  Sunday  at  the  Tollers  had  always 
formed  part  of  Nigel's  plan  in  visiting  Melbury.  Accident 
rather  than  any  design  of  his  was  responsible  for  his  having  bare- 
ly met  Myrtle  since  his  return  to  town.  She  had  suddenly 
embarked  on  a  course  at  the  Slade  and  vanished  into  Blooms- 
bury.  One  encounter  there  had  been,  at  a  Friday  Club  con- 
versazione, but  that  had  hardly  counted.  It  proved  to  him 
that  to  see  her  caused  him  no  kind  of  shock,  but  he  had  not 
expected  that  it  would.  Their  relations  had  never  been  of  that 
character.  He  was  not  in  the  least  prepared  to  give  up  the 
Tollers;  there  was  no  reason  in  his  feelings  why  he  should. 
Cambridge,  with  their  door  shut,  would  have  sadly  shrunk, 
and  an  entire  Sunday  at  Melbury  was  impossible.  He  was 
thoroughly  familiar  with  their  routine,  and  knew  that,  walking 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  61 

up  about  eleven  o'clock,  he  should,  on  such  a  fine  mild  morning 
as  had  followed  on  the  rain,  find  Sir  Anthony  in  the  garden, 
arguing  with  the  principal  week-end  guest,  whom  he  would, 
later  on,  take  for  a  walk  along  the  muddy  Madingley  Road. 
There  would  be  at  least  two  guests.  The  house  had  two  spare 
rooms,  even  when  the  whole  family  was  at  home,  including 
Godfrey,  who  could  not  be  counted  on  and  did  not  count.  In 
term  time  they  were  always  filled  with  visitors  whose  importance 
was  nicely  adjusted  to  their  respective  sizes.  In  the  morning 
one  guest  walked  with  Sir  Anthony;  one  of  the  girls  took  the 
other  as  a  rule  to  King's  Chapel,  if  he  showed  any  strong  inclina- 
tion thereto.  The  Tollers  never  attended  chapel  or  any  form 
of  service  on  their  own  account,  but  they  were  equipped  to  take 
an  intelligent  interest  in  the  curiosities  of  worship.  The  guests 
were  preponderantly  male,  since  they  were  invited  in  the  first 
place  to  provide  Sir  Anthony,  and  in  the  second  his  daughters, 
with  people  to  whom  to  talk.  Talking  was  Sir  Anthony's  main 
relaxation.  His  talk,  not  his  lectures,  was  the  source  of  his 
prodigious  influence  over  young  men.  Lady  Toller  did  not  care 
about  talking.  She  counted  for  very  little  in  the  week-end 
arrangements.  She  wrote  the  invitations,  instructed  the  house- 
maids to  get  rooms  ready,  and  ordered  more  or  less  appropriate 
meals.  But  with  that  her  part  ended.  Nobody  expected  her 
to  walk  round  the  garden  with  any  visitor  of  either  sex:  it  was 
enough  that  she  babbled  to  the  undergraduates  who  came  in 
serried,  silent  rows  to  tea.  Her  friends  were  invited  in  the 
middle  of  the  week,  when  Sir  Anthony  was  too  busy  to  talk  with 
them  and  the  girls  were  up  in  town. 

Now,  as  Nigel  skirted  the  thick  hedge,  he  heard  a  voice, 
peculiarly  high  and  penetrating,  which  he  knew  well,  saying — 

"The  difficulty  is  to  organise  those  ideal  stimuli.  They  are 
there,  they  are,  indeed,  the  strongest  stimuli,  even  in  modern 
life,  but  we  don't  organise  them.  The  Church  after  two  thou- 
sand years  of  effort — largely  on  wrong  lines — has  failed  absolute- 
ly. Modern  life  is  so  riddled  with  cross-references,  there  are 
so  many  minor  lines  of  stratification,  that  the  big  currents  can 
hardly  get  free  play.  Liberalism  ought  to  do  it — that's  why 
I'm  a  Liberal,  not  a  Socialist." 


62  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

"The  big  currents "  Nigel  wondered  what  they  were. 

Stephen  had  been  ready  enough  with  his  definitions,  but  Sir 
Anthony  would  not  see  things  so  simply  as  Stephen. 

Another  voice  replied,  fuller,  harsher,  younger. 

"The  Church  is  done.  The  theatre  has  got  to  take  its 
place. " 

Nigel  shrugged  his  shoulders  impatiently.  Cant  for  cant, 
he  preferred  that  of  the  parson  to  the  artist.  Turning  in  at 
the  garden  gate  he  found  himself  immediately  face  to  face  with 
Sir  Anthony  and  his  interlocutor.  Sir  Anthony  was  a  fine-look- 
ing man  with  long  grey  hair  standing  out  like  a  halo  round  his 
head  and  all  the  features  of  a  prophet,  except  the  eyes,  which  in 
his  case  were  quick  and  calculating,  and  not,  apparently,  blinded 
by  the  vision  of  what  was  far  to  the  sight  of  what  was  near. 
He  greeted  Nigel  warmly.  The  Tollers  were  too  advanced  to 
mind  such  a  trifle  as  a  broken  engagement  in  the  case  of  an 
interesting  young  man.  Then,  turning,  he  introduced  him  to 
Royal  Carrington,  the  distinguished  producer.  Nigel  had  been 
introduced  before,  but  Carrington  seemed  to  have  no  recollec- 
tion of  the  occasion,  a  fact  that  gave  substance  to  the  prejudice 
inspired  by  a  man  whose  little  brown  eyes  were  so  very  near 
together,  and  who  wore  a  pink  shirt.  Nigel  wondered  why  he 
was  there,  but  at  the  Tollers  one  met  every  one;  and  Magdalena 
had  been  the  success  of  the  season.  Perhaps  his  presence  was 
a  tribute  to  Evangeline,  who  had  appeared  in  Magdalena  in  a 
small,  undressed  part.  The  man  looked  a  brute,  he  thought; 
tall,  stout  and  florid,  his  physique  was  slack  for  all  its  solid 
fleshliness.  Nigel  hated  his  thick  white  jaw  and  small  brilliant 
eyes.  Sir  Anthony  with  his  fine  parchment  face  and  the  aureole 
of  hair  that  gave  him  such  a  misleading  air  of  gentleness,  looked 
like  a  disembodied  spirit  beside  him. 

Nigel's  first  spontaneous  opinion  of  the  single  production 
of  Royal  Carrington's  that  he  had  seen  had  been  that  it  was 
detestably,  brutally,  unmeaningly  ugly.  That  brutality,  how- 
ever, had  been  hailed  by  all  his  friends  as  strong,  new,  cour- 
ageous, and  Nigel,  going  again  in  a  party  assembled  for  the  con- 
genial purpose  of  laughing  at  the  absurdity  of  Evangeline  Tol- 
ler's supposing  she  could  dance,  had  found  himself  compelled 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  63 

into  a  kind  of  admiration.  He  was  in  presence  of  something  he 
did  not  understand,  and  that  impressed  him.  Occasionally 
there  flashed  across  his  mind  a  fear  that  he  was  really,  after  all, 
a  timid  mid-Victorian;  that  he  did  not  belong  in  essence  to  the 
younger  generation  at  all;  and  that  fear  made  him  distrust  his 
judgment  whenever  it  rose  instinctively  against  anything  new. 
His  dislike  of  Carrington's  thick  white  flesh  was  probably  only 
this  same  prejudice  of  refinement;  the  man  was  certainly 
abominably  clever,  whether  he  were  really  an  originator  or 
merely  a  skilled  exploiter;  and  the  more  people  of  his  sort  one 
met,  the  nearer  one  got  to  what  Nigel  vaguely  described  to  him- 
self as  "the  mind  of  age." 

Carrington  had  merely  nodded  in  response  to  Sir  Anthony's 
introduction;  he  did  not  remove  his  hands  from  his  pockets,  and 
now  continued  the  conversation,  a  fat  Egyptian  cigarette  droop- 
ing meantime  from  one  corner  of  his  mouth. 

"The  object  of  the  artist,  I  take  it,  is  to  administer  a  shock. 
He  must  catch  the  attention.  The  attention  of  your  over-fed, 
after-dinner  audience  is  torpid,  otiose,  stagnant.  You  can't  get 
a  reaction  out  of  them  except  by  violence.  Hit  'em  and  they 
must  protest.  Hit  'em  hard  enough  and  they  wake  up.  The 
ordinary  idea  is  to  tickle.  I'm  out  against  the  ticklers. 
A  man  when  he's  tickled  laughs  and  goes  to  sleep." 

"I  suppose,"  Nigel  threw  in,  "it  doesn't  matter  what  they 
wake  up  to?" 

Carrington  shrugged  his  heavy  shoulders. 

"Not  to  me.     My  business  is  to  wake  'em.    That's  all." 

Sir  Anthony  was  frowning  intently. 

"But  the  weak  point  of  your  method — I'm  talking  theoreti- 
cally; I  don't,  as  you  know,  ever  go  to  a  theatre — seems  to  me 
that  it  only  jangles  the  nerves.  Now,  this  generation  is  a  mass 
of  nerves.  They've  got  away  from  all  the  strong,  simple 
emotions.  What's  wanted,  is  to  make  a  little  blood  circulate, 
if  it  can,  in  their  veins. " 

"You  don't  go  to  the  theatre?  Then  you  make  a  great 
mistake,  Sir  Anthony.  The  theatre  is  the  thing.  I  don't 
mean  the  '  slice  of  life '  theatre — Galsworthy  and  all  that  school. 
There's  nothing,  I  grant  you,  to  be  got  from  that  kind  of  dry 


64  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

logic-chopping.  It's  all  utterly  and  hopelessly  given  over  to 
words.  Words  are  the  destruction  of  what  I  mean  by  the 
theatre.  They  just  lead  it  astray.  Emotion  is  the  stuff,  and 
words  have  nothing  to  do  with  emotion. " 

Nigel  felt  excited.  After  all,  if  Royal  Carrington  were  the 
last  note  in  modernity,  here  was  an  idea  he  could  thoroughly 
accept.  An  argument  he  had  often  had  with  Mrs.  Leonard 
came  back  to  his  mind. 

"Emotion  in  general,  yes.  But  how,"  he  said,  "can  one 
get  any  definite  emotion  without  words?  Isn't  the  stuff  you 
can  express  in  any  other  way — pictorially,  I  mean;  I  suppose 
music  is  different — highly  limited  and  generalised?" 

They  paused  for  a  moment,  for  the  end  of  the  path  had  been 
reached  again.  Carrington  turned  his  eyes  for  a  moment  in 
Nigel's  direction,  while  he  took  a  fresh  cigarette  from  a  beaten 
gold  case  which  he  brought  out  from  the  pocket  of  his  striped 
waistcoat. 

Meantime  Sir  Anthony  had  eagerly  taken  up  the  word. 

"Emotion  is  never  definite  until  it  issues  in  action.  Action 
is  its  only  legitimate  issue.  Nowadays  we've  got  so  clever  that 
we  whittle  every  emotion  away  by  reasoning  about  it.  As  if 
reason  and  emotion  had  anything  to  do  with  one  another! 
Reason  is  one  function,  emotion  another.  Science  teaches  us 
to  distinguish  them  and  what  they  can  tell  us.  The  reality  of 
life  is  apprehended  emotionally :  Bergson  is  right  there.  Reason 
tries  to  describe  it  in  words.  It  escapes.  So  far  I  agree,  Car- 
rington. " 

An  acuter  listener  than  Nigel  might  have  wondered  whether 
words  were  not,  here  again,  doing  their  evil  part.  Carrington 
had  no  use  for  the  type  of  high  human  emotion  of  which  Sir 
•Anthony  was  thinking;  clever  as  he  was,  it  was  something  out- 
side his  purview.  That  jaw  never  belonged  to  a  mystic.  More 
probable  was  it  that  he  saw  before  him  a  new  and  highly  usable 
type:  the  emotional  scientist,  who  did  not,  or  could  not,  let 
the  right  lobe  of  his  brain  know  what  the  left  was  doing. 

A  slight  brightening  of  Carrington's  eyes  caused  Nigel  to 
turn  his  own  in  the  direction  of  the  house.  Two  tall  young 
women  and  a  short  young  man  were  coming  down  the  steps.  He 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  65 

knew  the  women  as  the  daughters  of  the  house,  Evangeline  and 
Myrtle.  The  young  man  was  a  stranger  to  him. 

Neither  Evangeline  nor  Myrtle  was  handsome  in  the  ordi- 
nary sense.  They  had  not  inherited  the  beauty  of  their  mother. 
But  they  both  enjoyed  that  measure  of  good  looks  which  belongs 
by  happy  right  to  the  well-fed  and  well-dressed  and  self-assured. 
They  held  themselves  well,  thanks  to  continuous  and  varied 
outdoor  exercise.  They  moved  with  a  grace  bred  of  a  social 
experience  which  had  begun  almost  in  the  nursery,  and  an  entire 
absence  of  shyness.  Both,  as  photographers  say,  "took" 
admirably  and  posed  so  habitually  that  they  appeared  more  nat- 
ural than  a  really  simple  person  can  ever  seem.  Evangeline, 
extremely  dark,  with  heavy-lidded  slumbrous  eyes,  and  a  mouth 
that  suggested  tragedy  now,  but  would  reveal  itself  as  merely 
peevish  when  the  pale  bloom  began  to  fade  from  her  cheeks, 
moved  at  present  with  the  air  and  cultivated  the  manner  of  an 
odalisque.  Her  black  hair,  wound  round  her  head  in  a  fillet,  hid 
the  high  forehead  she  had  inherited  from  her  father;  when  she 
spoke  her  words  dropped  out  listlessly,  as  from  one  ineffably 
bored  with  life.  As  a  matter  of  fact  she  had  a  quick,  narrow 
mind  and  a  fund  of  energy  directed  solely  to  getting  what  she 
wanted — at  the  moment  the  attention  of  Mr.  Carrington. 
When  Nigel  last  met  her  she  had  been  interested  in  a  young  man 
with  a  plus-two  handicap  at  golf,  brushed  her  hair  back  and 
held  herself  erect  in  a  short  tweed  skirt.  Now  she  came  trailing 
toward  them  in  long  purple  draperies  edged  with  fur.  A  vivid 
crimson  sash  was  loosely  knotted  below  her  waist. 

But  Nigel  had  no  time  for  Evangeline.  Myrtle  was  advanc- 
ing to  greet  him  and  he  felt  himself  waiting  for  a  sensation. 
None  came.  Myrtle  was  admirably  dressed  in  the  latest  fashion. 
She  disliked  Evangeline  and  did  everything  she  could  to  slur 
the  annoying  physical  resemblance  between  them,  accentuated, 
when  they  were  girls,  by  Lady  Toller's  tiresome  insistence  in 
dressing  the  sisters  alike.  Her  efforts  were  successful;  the  like- 
ness only  remained  as  a  piquant  heightening  of  their  difference 
when  they  appeared  together,  which  was  seldom,  for  Evangeline 
had  gravitated  towards  Chelsea,  Myrtle  to  Bloomsbury. 
Alert,  frank,  vivacious,  slangy,  Myrtle  presented  a  type  of 


66  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

modern  womanhood  antithetical  to  her  sister's.  She  held  out 
her  hand  to  Nigel  with  a  cheerful,  "So  you've  turned  up  at 
last,"  and  a  smile  in  which  he  seemed  to  read  a  kind  of  tri- 
umph. Why  triumph?  He  might  be  glad  that  the  incident 
had  left  no  scar,  but  that  she  should  be  glad  too  belittled  it  all. 
Such  rapid  recovery  assimilated  her  to  her  sister.  He  longed 
to  tell  her  so.  The  opportunity  came  almost  at  once.  Evange- 
line  drifted  towards  the  gate  with  Royal  Carrington.  The 
unknown  young  man — it  was  a  habit  of  the  Tollers  not  to  in- 
troduce, they  took  a  great  many  things  for  granted — had  ad- 
dressed to  Sir  Anthony  a  question  which  seemed  to  interest 
him.  Myrtle's  smile — she  had  an  agreeable  smile,  slow  and 
perfectly  regulated — developed,  and  showed  her  large  white 
teeth. 

"  Evidently  we  are  to  amuse  one  another, "  she  said.  "  Let's 
sit  on  the  wall  there  in  the  sun.  I  don't  feel  energetic  enough 
for  a  walk.  It's  too  muggy.  Have  a  cigarette. " 

She  opened  the  silver  chatelaine-case  that  jangled  by  her 
side  as  she  walked. 

"It's  the  worst  of  week-ends  at  home  that  mother  has  a 
prejudice  against  smoke  in  the  drawing-room  before  lunch.  .  .  . 
Home  life  is  impossible,  isn't  it?  " 

They  were  now  seated  side  by  side  on  the  low  wall  at  the 
end  of  the  big  garden,  dividing  it  from  the  paddock  behind.  It 
was  a  very  dull  garden,  with  formal  beds  and  strips  of  grass  on 
either  side  of  the  tennis  lawn.  In  front  of  them  was  the  house : 
new  red  brick,  commodious  but  not  beautiful;  beside  it  a  tall 
poplar.  Myrtle  was  looking  at  the  house,  but  her  remark 
clearly  had  a  more  general  reference,  for  she  went  on — 

"What  a  mistake  it  would  have  been  if  we'd  really  got 
involved  in  it.  I  can't  imagine  now  how  I  ever  contemplated 
it." 

"Don't  you  mean  to  marry  ever,  then?"  Nigel's  tone  was 
sharper  than  he  knew. 

"Oh,  yes!"  She  looked  at  him,  amusement  sparkling  in 
her  eyes.  "Oh,  dear,  yes.  But  marrying  doesn't  necessarily 
involve  'home  life. ' " 

"It's  generally  supposed  to  do  so." 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  67 

Nigel's  cigarette  had  gone  out:  Myrtle  offered  a  match. 

"Yes,  but  not  by  our  generation,"  she  corrected.  "It's 
one  of  the  things  we're  getting  beyond.  When  I  marry — as  I 
shall  do,  don't  be  afraid — it  won't  be  any  one  with  a  domestic 
ideal.  You  have  it,  you  know.  Oh,  yes,  you  have.  It's  part 
of  your  charm,  perhaps  the  most  dangerous  part  of  it.  You 
suggest  such  fascinating  opposites.  That's  why  it  won't  be 
easy  for  you  to  bring  it  off. " 

"Why  not?  "  said  Nigel.  "Oh,  I'm  interested,  I  assure  you. 
You  think  you  understand  me?" 

Myrtle  looked  at  him  more  seriously. 

"I  think  so,"  she  said.  "Anyhow,  what  I  mean  is,  it  won't 
be  easy  to  make  a  success  for  you  and  her.  You're  very  attrac- 
tive, of  course;  ah,  when  you  smile  like  that  at  me,  I  forgive 
myself!  We  have  wonderful  smiles,  both  of  us.  I  suppose 
that's  what  drew  us  together. " 

Nigel's  smile  became  a  laugh. 

"No  further  explanation  is  needed,"  he  said.  "You're 
much  too  exciting  for  a  wife. " 

Myrtle  frowned  and  shook  her  head. 

"There  you  are,"  she  said.  "You  want  to  be  excited,  but 
you're  afraid  of  people  who  excite  you.  You  want  to  be  mod- 
ern, and  yet  you'd  like  to  be  out  of  the  danger  in  a  little  nook 
of  your  own.  .  .  .  You  want  some  one  who'll  think  you  perfect, 
and  yet  is  so  clever  that  you  can  believe  it's  true;  who'll  sacri- 
fice everything  for  you,  and  never  let  you  know  it.  You  want 
to  take  and  think  you're  giving:  so  do  we.  Women  of  mother's 
age  wanted  to  give  and  think  they  were  taking.  Those  women 
are  rare  nowadays.  I  don't  believe  one  exists  of  my  generation. 
And,  of  course,  you'd  insist  on  some  one  young  and  interesting. " 

"You're  awfully  interesting,"  cried  Nigel,  as  she  paused. 

"Of  course.     I'm  talking  about  you." 

"No,  in  yourself  I  mean." 

"Of  course,"  repeated  Myrtle  calmly,  "I  know  I  am.  But 
not  interesting  enough  for  you!" 

Nigel  parried  it.  "Not  enough  interested,"  he  said. 
"What  was  wrong  with  us  was  that  each  wanted  to  go  on  being 
just  the  same,  not  making  any  concession  to  the  other." 


68  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

Sir  Anthony  and  the  short  young  man  reappeared  from  the 
front  garden,  and  began  pacing  up  and  down  along  the  path 
which  ran  under  the  open  French  window  of  the  study,  along 
the  top  of  the  lawn. 

"Poor  Mr.  Delahaye,"  Myrtle  murmured.  "Father  is 
simply  pouring  mysticism  into  him,  and  he  doesn't  understand 
it  in  the  least.  Do  you  see  them  there  on  the  upper  path? 
When  father  walks  like  that  with  his  head  tilted  he's  always  on 
the  Super-sensible  Reality!  What  were  you  saying?  Oh,  yes. 
Yes,  you're  right.  It  was  all  interest.  When  we  had  found 
each  other  out  we  had  got  to  the  end  and  shut  the  book.  But, 
do  you  see,  it  was  extraordinarily  lucky  that  we  happened  to 
get  to  the  last  page  together.  We  might  not.  People  don't 
often.  You  ought  to  be  careful,  Nigel,  because  you  don't  know 
what  you're  like,  what  your  effect  on  people  is:  you  open  the 
book  as  if  it  were  going  to  live  under  your  pillow  always.  Now, 
I  know  I'm  only  taking  it  out  of  the  circulating  library.  I  don't 
insist  on  marking  it  all  over  and  writing  my  name  on  the  flyleaf. 
You  do.  I  want  to  read  a  tremendous  lot  of  books,  all  there 
are;  I  don't  take  each  up  as  if  it  were  the  family  Bible." 

Nigel  laughed,  but  his  laughter  died  away  and  he  looked 
gravely  at  Myrtle.  She  was  extraordinary:  extraordinary  in 
her  self-assurance  and  hardness.  It  was  amazing  that  he  could 
ever  have  made  love  to  her.  Had  he? 

"Don't  look  so  tragic  about  it,  Nigel,  although  you  look 
very  handsome,  like  a  hero  of  a  novel,  when  you're  tragic.  Do 
you  feel  sad  when  you  look  tragic?  It  must  be  so  tiresome  to 
practise  a  tragic  look,  like  Evangeline,  if  one  does. " 

Nigel  walked  home  in  the  late  evening  feeling  singularly 
tired.  The  Tollers  gave  one  that  feeling,  a  sense  of  strain  and 
effort,  constantly  beaten  back.  Sir  Anthony,  with  his  per- 
petually baffled  attempts  to  classify  and  seize  the  things  he  ad- 
mitted to  be  unclassifiable  and  unseizable;  Lady  Toller,  sur- 
rounded by  a  family  beyond  her  grasp;  Evangeline  in  her 
changing  impersonations,  each  of  which  destroyed,  or  tried  to 
destroy,  all  that  had  gone  before ;  Myrtle,  demanding  sensations 
which  her  temperament  could  never  know: — they  all  somehow 
missed  the  thing,  whatever  it  was,  that  one  wanted,  supremely, 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  69 

from  life;  and  none  of  them  could,  therefore,  ever  satisfy  one 
who,  like  Nigel,  knew  himself  as  groping  after  that  secret.  It 
struck  him  now  as  strange  that  he  could  ever  have  hoped  to  get 
near  that  secret  through  a  relation  with  Myrtle.  Mrs.  Leonard 
had  shown  him  that  his  fancied  suffering  was  totally  unreal; 
Myrtle  herself  had  swept  away  the  last  film  of  illusion.  She 
had  felt  no  more  than  he,  and  that  was  nothing.  It  had  been 
an  episode,  no  more,  for  her  as  well  as  for  him.  A  slight  an- 
noyance, that  she  had  felt  no  more  than  he,  persisted,  but  he 
saw  it,  and  saw  that  it  was  absurd.  Of  course,  she  never  could 
feel  more:  it  was  a  function  of  her  nature,  that  incapacity,  not 
of  his.  It  was  she  who  could  not  feel,  not  he  who  could  not 
inspire,  real  passion. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

NIGEL  sat  before  the  great  roll-top  desk,  heaped  with 
a  confusion  of  papers  that  suggested  the  importance  of 
a  busy  editor,  the  pressure  on  his  time.  Leaning  back  in 
his  chair  he  began  to  dictate  a  final  paragraph. 

"In  our  opinion  the  Government  has  already  gone  to  the 
fullest  limit  of  concession.  The  Home  Rule  Bill  has  behind  it 
the  clearly  expressed  wish  of  a  majority  of  the  electors  of  Great 
Britain.  If  democracy " 

The  telephone  on  the  little  square  table  by  the  desk  vibrated 
violently.  Nigel  continued  as  he  took  down  the  receiver — 

"Is  to  be  a  reality.  .  .  .  Yes — yes. "  He  heard  a  sharp 
voice,  unmistakable  even  over  the  wires. 

"  Hullo,  Nigel,  is  that  you?  Good-morning.  Myrtle  speak- 
ing. Will  you  join  a  party  to  a  show  to-night?  Chris  Bampton, 
Ned  Coventry,  Jimmy — possibly  the  Drews:  certainly  Daphne 
Leonard.  What  show?  Oh,  I'm  afraid  Magdalena,  Evange- 
line's  given  me  some  seats.  Can't  you  stand  her?  I've  some- 
thing interesting  to  tell  you  about  her,  by  the  bye.  Do  come. " 

"Awfully  sorry,  but  you  see  it's  Friday."  Nigel  entered 
into  explanations,  of  which  Myrtle  seemed  a  little  sceptical. 
She  did  not  appreciate  the  responsibilities  of  an  editor's  chair. 
At  last  he  had  an  idea. 

"  I  can't  get  away  till  nine.  But,  look  here,  why  not  all  meet 
for  drinks  afterwards?  Yes,  the  Caf£  Regal.  It's  handy,  and 
unless  you  want  to  stay  for  the  Bioscope?  No.  Well,  that'll 
be  excellent.  About  ten.  Oh  yes,  the  more  the  merrier. 
Righto. "  He  rang  off  and  turned  to  his  typist. 

"Where  had  we  got  to,  Miss  James?  Oh,  yes.  'If  democ- 

70 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  71 

racy  is  to  be  a  reality,  the  will  of  a  majority  cannot  be  overridden 
by  a  threat  from  a  minority.  If  the  Government  act  firmly, 
their  position  is  unassailable."1  He  paused.  Myrtle  had 
broken  the  thread  on  which  his  periods  had,  before,  been  deli- 
cately strung.  "That  will  do  for  the  present,  Miss  James.  I 
will  add  something  in  proof. " 

He  rose  and  opened  the  door  for  Miss  James  to  pass  out. 
She  had  hardly  done  so  when  Mr.  Brown,  the  head  cashier, 
appeared. 

"May  I  speak  to  you  for  a  moment,  sir?" 

Mr.  Brown  was  a  tall  grey-haired  man,  with  the  stiff  bearing 
of  an  ex-soldier:  an  erectness  that  made  Nigel  straighten  his 
own  limp  back  as  he  resumed  his  place  in  the  seat  of  authority. 
There  was  an  unusual  hesitation  in  the  cashier's  manner:  he 
had  been  in  half-an-hour  ago  for  the  signing  of  cheques  and  Nigel 
had  then  guessed  that  he  had  something  more  to  say.  It  had, 
however,  failed  to  bring  itself  out. 

"What  is  it,  Mr.  Brown?  "  He  half  turned  round  in  his  chair 
to  look  at  him.  In  the  hierarchy  of  the  office,  members  of  the 
editorial  staff  were  addressed  without  prefix,  as  Matheson, 
Jeffries,  Robinson;  while  the  clerks  and  advertisement  staff 
retained  it.  Nigel,  of  course,  was  Mr.  Strode  to  every  one,  but 
that  was  a  different  matter.  Matheson  and  Jeffries  lunched 
together  and  addressed  each  other  as  Bill  and  Walter;  Matheson 
dined  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jeffries  at  Putney.  Robinson,  equal 
in  official  status,  did  not  exist  outside  the  office.  The  other  two 
sometimes  lunched  with  him  and  occasionally  even  supped  on 
press  day;  but  no  one  called  him  anything  but  Robinson.  It 
was  felt — but  never  said — that  though  he  was  all  right,  Mrs. 
Robinson  might  be  difficult  and  not  quite  up  to  the  delicate 
standard  of  Putney.  On  the  other  hand,  Robinson  was  far  the 
ablest  of  the  three :  Fleet  Street  was  full  of  substitutes  for  Mathe- 
son and  Jeffries,  but  Robinson  was  indispensable.  So  in  his 
way  was  Mr.  Brown.  Mr.  Brown  moved  from  one  foot  to  the 
other. 

"It's  about  Mr.  Jenkins,  sir." 

"Jenkins?"  Nigel  was  for  the  instant  at  a  loss.  Then 
he  recovered. 


72  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

"Oh,  yes,  the  advertisement  manager.  What  about  him? 
Sit-down,  Mr.  Brown." 

Mr.  Brown  looked  at  the  indicated  seat,  but  made  no  motion 
towards  it.  To  have  sat  down  in  the  editor's  room  would  have 
disturbed  his  sense  of  values;  for  an  awkward  job  of  this  kind 
he  preferred  to  stand. 

"It's  like  this,  sir.  For  some  time  past  I've  been  afraid 
Jenkins  hasn't  been  running  quite  straight.  ...  I  knew  he'd 
been  in  money  troubles.  ...  I've  had  my  suspicions  about  the 
ads.  for  some  time. "  He  hesitated. 

"Well?"  said  Nigel,  still  in  the  dark. 

Mr.  Brown  stared  at  the  portrait  of  Mr.  Gladstone  over 
the  fireplace. 

"Taking  commissions  on  the  ads.,  sir.  Putting  up  the  rates 
to  advertisers  and  pocketing  the  difference. " 

The  cashier  entered  into  a  detailed  explanation,  which  made 
the  point  clear  even  to  Nigel,  who  had  never  troubled  to  master 
the  technical  side  of  the  paper:  and  further  showed  that  Jen- 
kins's defalcations  all  dated  from  the  period  of  Davis's  departure. 
Mr.  Brown  handled  this  point  delicately,  but  he  observed  that 
Mr.  Davis  used  to  go  through  all  the  accounts  on  Saturday 
morning,  and  "a  thing  like  this  couldn't  have  escaped  his 
notice:  he  is  wonderful  with  figures,  is  Mr.  Davis."  Nigel 
never  came  in  on  Saturday :  he  had  not  even  realised  that  Davis 
regularly  did  so.  But,  of  course,  Davis  was  a  creature  with  no 
life  outside  the  office.  Nevertheless,  to  realise  that  Jenkins 
had  so  quickly  taken  advantage  of  the  slacker  hand  at  the  helm 
caused  him  a  moment  of  anger.  It  was  not  lessened  when  Mr. 
Brown  stated  that  Jenkins  was  a  very  useful  man:  to  dismiss 
him  would  be  awkward  for  the  paper.  The  problem  grew  more 
annoying,  the  more  it  developed.  Nigel  had  conceived  of 
Davis's  absence  as  coinciding  with  a  marked  all-round  lift  in 
the  New  World.  This  did  not  look  like  it,  and  coming  on  top  of  a 
weariness  which  he  felt  in  connection  with  the  literary  side  of  the 
paper,  filled  him  with  a  disgust  of  his  profession.  It  was  all  very 
well  for  Davis  to  live  for  the  New  World,  Nigel  could  not  do  so. 

"I  suppose  I  had  better  see  Jenkins,"  he  said  at  last. 
"Will  you  send  him  in,  Mr.  Brown?" 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  73 

Jenkins  appeared,  and  at  first  stoutly  protested  that  the 
whole  allegation  was  an  invention  of  the  cashier's.  Mr.  Brown, 
however,  once  the  affair  fell  into  his  hands — which  Nigel  was 
soon  glad  to  let  it  do — speedily  reduced  Jenkins  to  a  condition 
so  abject  that  Nigel,  feeling  sorry  for  the  wretched  little  man, 
bade  the  cashier  go.  The  door  closed  behind  him.  Jenkins 
suddenly  dropped  his  face  in  his  hands  and  began  to  sob.  This 
was  a  new  and  unexpected  turn  in  the  affair.  Nigel  felt  em- 
barrassed; his  embarrassment  increased  his  annoyance. 

"Look  here,  man,"  he  said  sharply,  "there's  no  use  in  going 
on  like  that.  Pull  yourself  together  and  tell  me  what's  hap- 
pened. How  have  you  got  into  this  mess?  " 

Jenkins  gulped  noisily  once  or  twice;  then  clearing  his 
throat  burst  into  a  torrent  of  inexact  and  irrelevant  detail,  from 
which,  gradually,  the  truth  emerged.  Nigel  did  not  know  what 
to  say. . 

"But  she  must  be  a  hopelessly  bad  lot,  Jenkins?" 

"Oh  yes,  sir.  I  see  that.  I've  always  seen  it.  When  I 
don't  see  her,  I  know.  I  see  the  awful  mess  I'm  in;  and  I  see 
she's  done  it.  But  you  know,  sir,  when  I'm  with  her,  I  forget  all 
that  ...  I  don't  care  for  anything;  I'd  do  anything.  Nothing 
matters. " 

Nigel  looked  at  the  advertisement  manager.  He  was  a 
little  man  rather  like  a  rat  in  appearance,  with  sleek  hair, 
shiny,  pimply  face,  weak,  pursed-up  mouth  and  pale,  shifting 
eyes.  In  his  dapper  city  clothes,  light  spats  and  white-edged 
waistcoat  he  looked  an  absurd,  incredible  vehicle  for  a  passion 
that  swept  manners  and  security  and  decency  away:  one  of  the 
ten  thousand  colourless  suburbans  who  came  up  to  town  day 
in,  day  out,  did  the  same  things  week  after  week  and  year  after 
year,  and  kept  up  an  appearance.  With  his  eyes  pink  and  swol- 
len behind  his  dimmed  glasses,  he  was  a  forlorn  but  also  a  ridicu- 
lous figure.  Nigel  watched  him  carefully  flick  a  speck  of  dust 
off  his  trousers,  and  marvelled  at  it  all.  Jenkins,  the  type  of 
machine-made  modern  life  at  its  poorest ;  the  product  of  a  cheap 
and  hurried  schooling,  evening  classes,  the  city  and  suburban 
trains;  born  and  bred  behind  dirty  lace  curtains  in  a  jerry-built 
house,  with  no  hope  in  the  future  of  anything  but  such  another 


74  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

house,  in  a  quarter  where  every  house  was  as  like  its  neighbours 
as  were  a  row  of  peas  in  a  pod;  imprisoned  from  his  earliest 
breath  in  a  false  respectability  whose  maintenance  was  the  only 
religion  that  had  ever  been  instilled  into  his  mind — Jenkins  the 
centre  of  this  wild  tale  of  dangerous  dishonesty  and  still  more 
dangerous  love!  It  was  amazing.  And  for  Nigel  the  sordid 
meanness  of  it  all  disappeared  in  the  wonder  of  a  passion  that 
could  make  Jenkins  take  such  risks.  He  took  off  his  hat 
to  that.  His  feelings  were,  indeed,  so  confused  that,  on 
pretence  of  being  busy,  he  bade  Jenkins  go  and  return  on 
Monday. 

But  he  could  not  so  easily  dismiss  him  from  his  mind. 
Over  his  solitary  Friday  chop  he  reflected  upon  Jenkins.  He 
was  disappointed  to  find  Hugh  out:  he  would  have  liked  to  hear 
his  opinion.  What  his  own  was  he  could  not  decide.  It  was 
absurd,  but  he  had  to  admit,  as  he  sat  before  his  fire,  that  he 
almost  envied  Jenkins.  What  was  it  that  he  envied  the  miser- 
able worm?  Jenkins  was  the  typical  wage  slave,  bound  to  a 
more  dreary  servitude  than  that  of  the  manual  worker  he  de- 
spised. One  could  picture  his  drab  existence  from  start  to  finish, 
were  it  not  so  hopeless  that  to  do  so  even  in  imagination  was 
depressing.  Typical  he  was  in  all  save  this  sudden  incursion 
of  something  not  arranged  for,  which  was  plunging  him  into 
a  chaos  from  which  there  seemed  no  escape.  Nigel's  thoughts 
soon  left  Jenkins  and  returned  to  himself.  He  had  been  in  love 
more  than  once:  but  not  in  that  way.  There  had  been  nothing 
deep  or  ruinous  in  any  pleasant  relationships  he  passed  in  review. 
Least  of  all  in  the  last.  Myrtle  could  never  have  thrilled  him; 
he  had  never  at  any  moment  felt  the  least  spark  of  dangerous 
fire  in  her,  and  she  had  kindled  none  in  him.  One  woman  had 
come  near  to  that,  and  he  had  fled.  What,  he  wondered,  would 
Aurelia  say  about  Jenkins?  It  was  strange  to  feel  so  sure  that 
she  would  see  in  him  that  quality  of  irrelevant  strangeness  and 
splendour  that  he  felt  himself:  she,  and  no  one  else,  in  all  his 
acquaintance. 

A  sharp  ring  at  the  bell  broke  in  upon  his  thoughts,  and  the 
next  moment  Mallard  Floss  appeared.  It  suddenly  struck 
Nigel  that  Mallard  was  rather  like  Jenkins  to  look  at;  like,  and 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  75 

yet  extraordinarily  unlike.  Jenkins  was  insignificant,  as  no 
one  with  Mallard's  hard-set,  fanatical  mouth  could  be.  Nigel 
greeted  him  warmly,  glad  to  be  interrupted,  though  he  was  not 
sure  that  he  liked  Mallard.  Mallard  had  not,  in  the  years 
that  had  passed  since  he  came  down  from  Oxford,  got  rid  of 
the  conviction  that  the  world  was,  intellectually  speaking,  at 
his  feet.  He  had  never  been  visited  by  difficult  doubts  and 
tortured  by  dim  apprehensions.  He  went  straight  for  what  he 
wanted,  and,  thanks  to  an  admirable  simplicity  that  made  what 
it  was  quite  clear  to  him,  grabbed  it.  He  had  just  written  a 
series  of  articles  on  "Labour  Unrest"  in  a  prominent  morning 
paper,  which  had  created  quite  a  stir.  The  anonymity  made 
necessary  by  his  official  position  had  only  increased  his  reclame, 
for  it  gave  all  his  acquaintance  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  and 
communicating  something  supposed  to  be  a  secret,  and  so  mark- 
ing their  status  at  the  centre  of  things.  Mallard  Floss  was  su- 
premely conscious  that  he  stood  at  the  centre  of  things.  He  had 
hardly  finished  setting  forth  his  views  on  the  Dublin  Strike 
when  Hugh  appeared. 

"Hullo,  Nigel,"  said  the  latter;  "thought  you  were  sure 
to  be  at  Magdalena.  Myrtle  Toller  rang  me  up  and  asked  me 
to  go." 

"Oh,  Magdalena,"  Mallard  Floss  snorted.  "How  people 
can  waste  time  on  that  stuff!" 

Hugh  smiled  as  he  lit  his  pipe. 

"It's  the  new  gospel,  Floss;  you'll  have  to  fit  it  into  your 
scheme.  Royal  Carrington's  a  clever  fellow:  he's  struck  the 
popular  note  so  loudly  that  no  one  can  miss  it:  so  they  all 
throng  and  feel  tremendously  courageous. " 

"And  what, "  said  Mallard,  "is  the  popular  note?  " 

Hugh  looked  down  at  him,  still  smiling. 

"I  thought  you'd  analyzed  us  all,"  he  said.  "Surely  you 
can't  have  missed  our  new  hero,  the  Brute?  " 

Mallard  shrugged  his  shoulders  impatiently. 

"There's  no  use  doing  that,  Floss.  Magdalena  and  the 
Big  Fight  at  Olympia — these  are  our  'notes' — if  you're  really 
going  to  organise  us  you  must  fit  them  in. "  He  glanced  across 
at  Nigel.  "What  do  you  think,  Nigel?" 


76  ^  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

Nigel  moved  restlessly  in  his  chair.  "I  don't  know,"  he 
said. 

Hugh  puffed  at  his  pipe. 

"You  rather  hanker  after  the  Brute,  I  believe,"  he  said. 
"Now,  Floss  hates  it,  because  it  upsets  his  arithmetic." 

"And  you?"  said  Nigel. 

"Oh,  I?  I  simply  accept  it.  After  all,  it's  there.  There's 
no  use  in  pretending  it  isn't.  We  used  to  do  that.  Now  we've 
rushed  to  the  other  extreme  and  glorify  it.  We  tried  bottling 
it  up,  and  now  it's  bursting  our  bottle.  Don't  you  feel  there's 
some  danger  of  that,  Floss?" 

Mallard  shook  his  head. 

"Not  if  we  once  get  things  decently  organised,"  he  said. 
"As  a  matter  of  fact  I  see  what  you  mean,  Infield,  though  of 
course  you  express  it  in  an  absurdly  fantastic  way.  I've  always 
felt  that  the  Socialist  movement  was  far  too  negative.  That's 
why  it's  got  no  drive.  Its  eyes  are  glued  to  dirt  and  disease 
and  a  pound  a  week:  it  goes  on  saying  we  must  make  an  end 
of  this,  not  we  must  have  that. " 

Mallard  expatiated  on  this  congenial  theme  for  some 
minutes.  As  he  developed  his  ideas  they  always  came  back 
to  the  same  point.  What  was  required  was  the  adequate  organ- 
isation of  everything,  with  a  certain  number  of  first-class  brains 
in  control.  These  brains  would  include  in  their  purview  and 
provide  for  every  rational  impulse,  scope  would  be  afforded  to 
everything,  and  the  whole  scheme  of  things  thus  rendered  effi- 
cient would  then  redound  to  the  praise  of  directing  mind — in 
the  person  of  Mallard  Floss.  Nigel's  attention  wandered  while 
Mallard  discoursed,  and  as  soon  as  he  ceased  he  turned  to 
Hugh  and  said  he  wanted  to  put  a  case  before  them  both.  He 
then  elaborated  the  story  of  Jenkins. 

"Ass,"  was  Mallard's  incisive  comment.  "I  suppose  he's 
married,  too?" 

The  point  had  not  occurred  to  Nigel.  He  thought  so,  but 
was  not  sure.  Hugh  looked  thoughtful,  but  said  nothing. 
There  was  a  silence.  Mallard  Floss  broke  it.  After  all,  he 
had  been  taking  it  in. 

"Of  course  it's  a  very  typical  instance  of  the  waste  of  energy 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  77 

that  we  allow  to  go  on,  thanks  to  our  want  of  decent  organisa- 
tion. It's  that  combination  of  acquiescence — to  go  on  marrying 
and  having  children  and  wearing  a  black  coat  and  voting  Tory 
because  it's  respectable,  and  hating  the  working  class,  all  on 
thirty-seven  shillings  a  week,  and  then  suddenly  to  break  out 
in  the  only  way  that  can  drag  you  down  still  further — it's  that 
damned  combination  that  keeps  us  muddling  where  we  are " 

"What!"  cried  Nigel,  suddenly  hating  the  point  of  view. 
"Can't  you  feel  anything  fine  in  a  feeling  so  big  that  it  sweeps 
a  little  fly  like  Jenkins  up  against  the  sun?  " 

Hugh,  who  had  said  nothing,  laughed. 

"Nigel,  you're  incurably  romantic!  Feelings  can't  be 
measured  just  in  terms  of  amount.  You  might  admire  drunken- 
ness on  those  lines — perhaps  you  do?" 

Nigel,  however,  had  got  hold  of  the  vague  idea  that  had  been 
floating  in  his  mind  all  evening. 

"Ah,  but,"  he  cried,  "if  you  think  what  Jenkins's  life, 
the  life  of  all  his  class  is — it's  drab  monotony,  nothing  hap- 
pening in  it  ever  that  can't  be  foreseen  from  the  be- 
ginning to  the  end,  a  sordid  struggle,  just  to  remain 
where  he  is — and  then  think  of  a  thing  so  violent,  so  prim- 
itive, crashing  in,  sweeping  order  and  sense  and  prudence 
away!" 

"And  honesty  and  reason  and  sanity  too?" 

"Yes,  I  daresay.  I  give  you  sanity  and  reason.  We've 
far  too  much  of  them.  But,  honesty,  no.  Jenkins  is  honest. 
I  envy  his  honesty.  Don't  you,  in  the  bottom  of  your  heart?" 

"Envy  him?"  Infield  laughed  rather  bitterly.  "No, 
I  should  as  soon  envy  a  savage  his  desire  to  eat  his 
enemy.  ...  I  pity  him.  He  isn't  honest;  he  doesn't 
realise  what's  happened.  He,  like  you,  probably  thinks  it's 
rather  fine.  Whereas  it's  nothing  of  the  kind.  It's  the 
control  of  the  brute  that's  fine:  not  the  brute  that  breaks  out 
from  it." 

"Of  course,"  said  Mallard,  "the  force  that  makes 
men  snatch  and  hit  and  steal  is  tremendously  useful: 
only  it's  utterly  wasted.  Organisation  is  what  we  want." 

"Oh,  no!"  cried  Nigel  eagerly.     "Freedom,  surely,  is  the 


78  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

real  thing.  Freedom  from  routine  and  suppression.  Women 
are  beginning,  anyhow." 

Hugh  rose  to  his  feet  with  a  movement  of  impatience. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "there  we  are:  a  talisman  is  what  we 
want,  after  all,  all  of  us.  'Organisation,'  'Freedom.' 
Every  problem  solved  by  turning  handles  or  giving  women 
latchkeys." 

Nigel  stared  at  him. 

"But,  surely,  Hugh,  you  want  women  to  be  free?" 

"Yes,  I  do.  But  my  idea  of  freedom  for  women  is  that 
they  should  enter  the  door  to  the  house  of  life.  All  they  want 
is  the  latchkey  of  the  flat." 

"I  don't,"  said  Mallard  indignantly,  "know  in  the  least 
what  you're  talking  about." 

Hugh  laughed  and  said  no  more. 

Nigel  felt  rather  irritated  with  them  both.  Neither  of 
them  seemed  to  have  taken  in  the  case  of  Jenkins  as  that 
of  a  human  being,  and  certainly  neither  had  thrown  the  small- 
est gleam  of  light  on  the  settlement  of  the  immediate  prac- 
tical problem.  Mr.  Brown  would  probably  be  of  more  as- 
sistance there.  To  Mr.  Brown  and  the  morning  it  might 
accordingly  be  left. 

Nigel  looked  at  his  watch,  and  finding  that  it  was 
already  after  ten-thirty,  rose  to  his  feet,  inviting  either  or 
both  of  the  others  to  accompany  him  to  the  Cafe"  Regal.  Hugh 
at  once  refused,  declaring  it  was  too  ugly.  His  manner 
very  definitely  failed  to  constitute  an  invitation  to  the 
other  to  stay,  and  Mallard  Floss  and  Nigel  Strode  ac- 
cordingly left  the  Temple  together.  In  Fleet  Street, 
however,  they  parted.  Mallard  turned  east:  he  was 
due  apparently  at  Toynbee;  while  Nigel  jumped  into 
a  taxi — it  was  pouring  with  rain — and  made  for  Picca- 
dilly. 

Passing  through  the  swinging  plate-glass  doors,  Nigel 
paused  on  the  threshold  of  the  enormous  room  to  which 
they  admitted  him,  and  looked  round  in  search  of  his 
party. 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  79 

The  place  blazed  with  light,  the  maximum  intensity  of 
unsoftened  electricity,  hanging  in  chandeliers  from  the 
roof,  all  gilt  and  glass,  and  repeated  in  heavy  standards 
against  the  walls.  It  was  reflected  in  the  innumerable 
mirrors  and  given  back  by  the  white  marble-topped 
tables  with  which  the  space  was  filled.  Light  blazed 
from  the  walls,  lavishly  decorated  in  crude  tones  of 
brown,  red  and  purple,  and  incongruously  adorned  with 
miscellaneous  antlers,  heraldic  shields  and  caps,  and 
from  the  ceiling,  where  more  mirrors  alternated  with 
vast  panels  which  displayed  sprawling  Teutonic  nymphs 
casting  their  ample  limbs  about  in  a  sea  of  gilt  scrolls. 
But  despite  this  superfluity  of  light,  the  hot  richness  of 
the  decoration,  the  incessant  scurry  of  laden  waiters  at- 
tending to  the  wants  of  a  crowd  of  guests,  the  clatter 
of  spoons,  glasses  and  dominoes,  the  scene  as  a  whole 
was  somehow  not  gay,  far  less  brilliant.  The  spirit  of 
jollity,  to  whom  the  place  was  presumably  dedicated, 
had  neglected  to  sprinkle  the  air  with  his  torch:  enjoy- 
ment was  the  last  sense  that  breathed  from  it.  The 
atmosphere  was  hot;  but  it  was  a  stuffy  oppressive  heat, 
the  heat  generated  by  too  many  people  smoking  bad 
tobacco  in  an  airless  room.  The  glare  of  the  light  was 
harsh  and  unbecoming.  The  men  and  women  seated 
on  the  red  plush  benches  round  the  walls,  or  on  the  hard 
chairs  set  in  rows  along  the  tables,  looked  ugly,  tired 
and  bored.  With  few  exceptions,  they  were  in  morning 
dress,  and  their  appearance  suggested  that  they  had 
worn  those  clothes  not  only  all  day  but  all  night.  The  bowler 
hats,  overcoats  and  umbrellas  hanging  on  the  clumsy  pegs 
or  lying  in  heaps  on  unoccupied  chairs,  increased  the  frowsi- 
ness  that  hung  over  the  scene  like  dust  over  a  neglected  house. 
The  place,  like  the  people,  was  somehow  furtive  and  brazen  at 
once. 

Nigel,  however,  knew  the  Cafe  Regal  too  well  to  be  struck 
by  anything  in  its  aspect.  He  had  accepted  it  on  the  rec- 
ommendation of  others,  and  never  seen  it  with  his  own  eyes. 
It  was  the  place  to  go  to:  and  so,  one  went.  "Life,"  pre- 


80  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

sumably,  was  to  be  seen  there,  and  if  it  presented  itself  as  pre- 
vailingly drab  and  dreary,  that  caused  no  surprise.  As  he 
moved  up  the  room,  threading  his  way  through  the  haze  of 
smoke  that  hung  over  the  tables  dotted  with  thick  coffee 
cups,  little  glasses  containing  various  coloured  liquids  and 
long  tumblers  of  light  beer,  he  surveyed  the  people  sitting  at 
them  and  recognised  various  habitues.  There  was  a  well- 
known  painter,  leaning  back  half  asleep  and  saying  nothing, 
only  his  little  darting  eyes  keeping  watch  on  the  girl  beside 
him.  Her  amazing  red  hair  was  uncovered,  and  her  orange 
garment,  of  no  particular  shape,  fell  away  at  the  sleeves  to 
show  bare  arms  of  flawless  contour,  and  hands,  equally  beau- 
tiful but  dirty,  that  turned  the  stem  of  her  little  green  glass 
round  and  round.  The  other  people,  sitting  at  the  tables  near, 
glanced  from  time  to  time  at  the  young  woman,  who  returned 
their  interest  with  a  stare  of  complete  sangfroid.  A  well- 
dressed  youth,  suddenly  entering,  plumped  himself  down 
opposite,  and  leaning  forward  said  something  to  her.  Nigel, 
who  had  paused  to  search  for  his  party,  did  not  hear  what 
he  said,  but  he  saw  the  girl's  slow  provocative  smile,  and 
the  quick  answering  flash  in  the  eyes  of  the  painter.  He 
moved  on,  glad  to  be  out  of  earshot  of  what  was  clearly  going 
to  be  a  difficult  situation:  the  more  glad  that  he  suddenly 
recognised  the  man  as  a  casual  acquaintance.  The  other 
groups  were  uninteresting,  heavy-eyed  young  men  of  no 
assignable  class,  pale  as  celery  and  with  the  same  air  of  having 
grown  up  in  the  dark;  among  them,  a  group  of  men  he  knew, 
but  not  the  right  group;  older  men  with  more  colour,  generally 
in  the  wrong  place;  a  few  uninteresting  women. 

At  last  in  the  furthest  corner  he  caught  sight  of  the  black 
head  of  Gervase  O'Connor,  and  reflected  in  the  glass 
the  face  of  Myrtle  Toller,  brilliant  in  her  scarlet  Cos- 
sack dress.  She  saw  him,  and  smiled  and  waved  her 
hand.  Beside  her  was  the  inevitable  Chris  Bampton: 
intelligent  enough  to  be  acceptable  in  any  company,  but 
missed  from  none:  and  Ned  Coventry;  opposite  to  them  sat 
an  unknown  and  rather  dirty-looking  dark  young  man 
whom  Nigel  guessed,  from  the  spotted  handkerchief  he  wore 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  81 

in  lieu  of  a  tie  and  other  signs,  to  be  Myrtle's  latest  discov- 
ery— a  post-impressionist  genius.  Lois  Drew  completed  the 
party. 

"What's  that  stuff  you're  drinking?"  Nigel  asked,  as 
he  wedged  himself  in  beside  Gervase,  and  a  waiter  approached 
to  take  his  order. 

Jimmy  slowly  poured  a  little  water  through  the  lump  of 
sugar  balanced  in  a  spoon  across  his  glass,  filled  with  a  thick, 
yellowish  fluid. 

"Absinthe.  Beastly  stuff.  Tastes  like  soap  and 
water.  Try  it!"  Jimmy  laughed.  He  seemed  in  excel- 
lent spirits. 

"Makes  you  feel  wonderful  when  you've  got  it  down," 
said  Ned  Coventry,  inspecting  the  changing  colour  in  his  own 
glass  with  the  eye  of  a  connoisseur.  "I  got  quite  to  like  it 
in  Paris  this  spring.  Jimmy  is  learning." 

Jimmy  made  a  face; 

"All  right,  I'll  try  it,"  said  Nigel.  "Where  are  the 
others? " 

"Daphne  thought  she  would  like  to  see  the  Bioscope, 
and  Wellesley  stopped  to  flirt  with  her,"  said  Myrtle,  pro- 
ducing her  cigarette-case,  and  lighting  up  with  the  aid  of  a 
match  supplied  by  Nigel. 

"I  think  she'll  have  a  good  influence  on  Wellesley,"  said 
Jimmy  thoughtfully,  "for  she  apparently  did  not  even  know 
he  was  doing  it." 

"Nobody  does,"  interjected  Lois  with  sudden  irrelevant 
fierceness.  "They  never  find  out  till  he  tries  to  kiss  them. 
Then  they  come  and  tell  me." 

Nigel  laughed,  more  to  cover  up  the  difficult  sense  Lois 
produced  than  from  any  amusement.  He  was  tired  of  the 
angularities  of  the  Drew  household. 

"She's  certainly  likely  to  have  more  influence  on 
Wellesley  than  he  on  her,"  Jimmy  resumed,  glancing 
towards  the  door.  "She's  remarkably  impenetrable,  I 
should  say."  He  took  a  small  gulp  of  his  yellow  mixture. 

"That's  your  chance  then,  Jimmy;  you  say  no  one  ever 
refuses  you!"  Myrtle  laughed. 


82  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

Jimmy  made  no  reply,  a  circumstance  unusual  with 
him;  and  there  was  a  pause  that  lasted  for  two  or  three  min- 
utes. 

Ned  Coventry  broke  it. 

"I'm  not  sure  that  she's  not  too  young  to  be  taken  to 
Magdalena,  you  know,"  he  said.  "  Magdalena  is — well — 

Myrtle  laughed. 

"You've  forgotten  the  'devout  and  beautiful'  atmosphere," 
she  said.  "As  a  matter  of  fact,  though,  Magdalena  simply 
isn't  there  at  all,  if  you've  got  a  pure  mind.  I  saw  nothing 
in  it  the  first  time.  In  fact,  I  was  dreadfully  disappointed — 
weren't  you,  Cecil?" 

If  Cecil  were  the  name  of  the  artist,  he  made  no  kind 
of  response  to  this  appeal.  He  continued  to  stare  al- 
ternately at  Myrtle  Toller  and  into  his  glass,  that  was 
all. 

"You  hoped  to  be  shocked,  and  it  didn't  come  off?"  said 
Nigel,  as  something  seemed  to  be  expected  which  no  one  was 
ready  to  produce. 

"Yes."  Myrtle  developed  her  idea.  "You  see,  the  ques- 
tion is  whether  to  be  shocked  or  not  to  be  shocked 
shows  a  deeper  corruption.  One  can't  be  sure;  that's 
where  Royal  is  so  clever,  and  that's  why  Magdalena  is 
such  a  success.  In  either  case  one  gets  puzzled;  doubts  whether 
one  has  had  any  experience;  and  so  goes  again  and 
again." 

"Not  Mallard  Floss.  He  wouldn't  go  again.  That 
seems,"  said  Nigel,  "to  suggest  fearful  doubts  about  his 
experience." 

"As  for  me,"  said  Ned,  "I  was  bored." 

Nigel  laughed.  "That's  abysmal.  Well,  I  suppose  we 
shall  hear  whether  Miss  Leonard  was  shocked  or  not." 

"Yes,  do  you  know,  we  shall,"  said  Jimmy  eagerly.  "If 
she  tells  us  anything,  that's  to  say,  she'll  tell  us  the  truth." 

"Is  that  so  unusual?"  said  Lois  sharply. 

Jimmy  leaned  back,  laughing. 

"Unusual!"  he  said.  "Unique.  You  try  doing  it,  Lois. 
You  couldn't.  None  of  us  could.  We  should  become  so 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  83 

self-conscious  that  we'd  give  it  up  in  the  attempt.  I  blurt 
things  out  now  and  then  that  are  true  to  a  mood;  but  not 
things  that  are  true  to  me.  None  of  us  can  do  it.  Daphne 
Leonard  can't  help  it.  ...  Of  course  she  may  say  nothing, 
but  she'll  know  what  she  thinks." 

Nigel  had  glanced  at  Jimmy  more  than  once  during  this 
passage,  wondering  when  and  how  he  had  acquired  this  knowl- 
edge of  Miss  Leonard,  and  feeling  a  slight  resentment  against 
him  in  that  he  had  so  far  the  advantage. 

The  conversation,  which  had  been  sustained  by  a  series 
of  spurts,  seemed  at  this  point  in  danger  of  expiring.  The 
young  artist,  who  had  not  opened  his  mouth,  stared  darkly 
before  him.  Ned  Coventry  ordered  another  absinthe,  but 
whether  to  break  the  tension  or  to  show  how  much  he  liked 
it,  was  obscure.  Every  one  seemed  to  be  trying  to  think  of 
a  bright  remark.  None  came. 

A  welcome  relief  was  afforded  by  the  appearance  of  Wellesley 
Drew  and  Miss  Leonard,  who  were  hailed  with  cheerful  shouts. 
A  great  deal  of  noise  and  re-arrangement  of  chairs  followed  and 
a  period  of  confusion  before  they  were  all  seated  again.  Wel- 
lesley talked  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  though  no  one  paid  much 
attention  to  him.  He  was  a  large  man,  with  a  ruddy  face  and 
loud  laugh  that  suggested  good  humour  and  little  cold  eyes  that 
took  the  suggestion  back.  As  a  Liberal  candidate  his  great 
asset  was  that  he  did  not  look  in  the  least  like  one.  To  him 
politics,  like  life  in  general,  was  a  game ;  his  mind  was  mean  and 
timid,  but  he  had  never  found  himself  out,  for  the  code  of  the 
playing  field  carried  him  along  and  most  people  would  have 
described  him  as  a  "thorough  sportsman."  His  marriage  with 
Lois  was,  from  his  point  of  view,  simply  a  piece  of  bad  luck.  It 
had  seemed  likely  that  he  would  have  done  well  for  her — a  pretty 
little  thing,  then,  whose  idea  of  life  was  that  some  great  tall  man 
with,  preferably,  a  black  moustache,  would  whirl  her  off  her  feet 
in  a  passion.  Wellesley's  moustache  was  red,  not  black,  but 
otherwise  he  had  seemed  to  fit  the  part.  Now  Lois  was  at  no 
pains  to  conceal  her  contempt  for  him.  If  he  flirted  with  other 
people  it  was  not  because  he  had  any  natural  facility  in  the  art, 
or  would  not  honestly  have  much  preferred  to  talk  baby  Ian- 


84  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

guage  to  his  own  wife  at  home.  At  home,  however,  was  where 
Lois  never  happened  to  be,  unless  she  were  lying  down  with  a 
splitting  headache.  Wellesley  bored  the  young  women  of  his 
own  set,  and  they  had,  one  by  one,  ceased  to  be  even  polite 
to  him.  Miss  Leonard's  tolerance  of  his  company  might  show  a 
natural  kindness  of  heart,  or  ignorance.  She  did  not  look  as 
though  his  attempts  at  flirtation  could  have  amused  her.  Nor, 
so  Nigel  thought  as  he  rose  to  greet  her,  did  she  look  as  though 
she  would  have  allowed  them  for  long,  if  they  did  not.  For 
though  his  first  impression  of  her,  as  she  shook  hands  with  a 
firm,  strong  grip  and  gravely  surveyed  him,  was  that  she  was 
very  young,  his  second  was  that  she  was  not  in  the  least  helpless. 
The  slow  serious  eyes  that  surveyed  the  company  were  grave, 
but  calm. 

Daphne  Leonard  was  not  tall:  standing  between  Wellesley 
Drew  and  Gervase  O'Connor,  both  nearly  six  feet  high,  though 
Wellesley  looked  taller  because  of  his  solid  bulk  and  Gervase 
shorter  because  of  his  slightness  and  his  stoop,  she  appeared 
definitely  small.  Nor  at  first  was  she  at  all  like  her  mother. 
Mrs.  Leonard's  whole  appearance  suggested  sharpness  and  fine- 
ness; as  of  a  sword  tempered  by  intense  heat.  Daphne  was 
built  on  a  larger,  simpler  scale  that  suggested  a  sane  robustness 
rather  than  the  dangerous  nervous  energy  of  her  mother.  Her 
face  was  wide,  while  her  mother's  was  narrow,  with  a  broad 
low  brow,  short  nose  and  wide  mouth  with  beautifully  curved 
rather  full  lips.  And  she  was  fair,  with  a  pale  clear  skin  and 
hair  growing  low  on  her  forehead  that,  as  far  as  could  be  seen 
under  her  straight  brimmed  hat,  was  golden-brown,  like  her 
thick  eyebrows  and  short  thick  lashes.  Under  the  shadow  cast 
on  her  face  by  the  blue  lining  of  her  hat,  her  eyes  could  not  be 
clearly  seen,  but  Nigel  thought  she  looked  altogether  more 
like  a  boy  than  a  girl;  the  sort  of  charming,  serious  boy  who 
was  the  being  in  the  world  he  found  most  alarming.  She  was 
so  like  a  boy  that  he  hardly  wondered  whether  or  no  she  was 
pretty:  yet  his  eyes,  during  the  rest  of  the  evening,  often  re- 
turned to  her  face.  Her  eyes,  he  fancied,  saw  a  good  deal;  and 
he  was  filled  with  curiosity  to  know  what  it  was. 

After  a  good  deal  of  rather  difficult  movement — it  was  by 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  85 

no  means  easy  to  get  in  or  out  from  the  narrow  space  between 
the  chairs  and  tables — the  whole  party  got  seated  again.  Miss 
Leonard  was  between  Jimmy  and  the  silent  artist,  who  trans- 
ferred his  sombre  gaze  to  her  for  a  few  minutes  and  then  returned 
to  his  previous  contemplation  of  Myrtle  Toller.  Nigel,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  table,  and  not  directly  opposite,  was  too  far 
removed  to  do  more  than  look  at  her;  but,  after  all,  revealing  or 
even  interesting  conversation  was  not  to  be  expected.  There 
were  too  many  of  them,  and  they  were  all  too  bright. 

"What  did  you  think  of  Magdalena,  Miss  Leonard?"  cried 
Ned  Coventry. 

Daphne  Leonard  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  before  she 
answered,  in  a  slow,  rather  soft,  but  very  distinct  voice — 

"I  thought  it  rather  ugly,  and  empty." 

"Ugly!"  cried  Lois  Drew  and  Ned  Coventry  in  chorus. 

"Empty!"  cried  Jimmy,  "empty!  Oh,  God,  oh,  Mon- 
treal!" 

Daphne  looked  first  at  one,  then  at  the  other,  a  slight  smile 
curving  her  lips. 

"Yes,"  she  said  unabashed.  "There  was  nothing  in  it. 
Nothing  for  me,  I  mean. " 

"Splendid!"  cried  Jimmy,  tapping  on  the  table  with  his 
ringers.  "Oh,  would  that  our  Royal  were  here!" 

"Oh,  Royal  would  be  delighted  to  have  it  called  ugly,"  said 
Myrtle.  "  To  annoy  him,  you  must  call  it  pretty ."  , 

"But  empty!"  murmured  Ned  Coventry.  "Isn't  that  the 
same  as  pretty?" 

The  conversation  continued  to  be  general  and  spasmodic: 
always  apparently  on  the  point  of  expiring  under  one  attempt 
at  an  epigram,  only  to  be  galvanised  into  life  again  by  some  new 
disconnected  clutch  at  brilliance.  Miss  Leonard  did  not  take 
much  part  in  it,  but  her  silence  did  not  seem  to  embarrass  her. 
After  all,  Nigel  reflected,  she  knew  these  people:  they  had  all 
met  her  before,  except  himself.  In  him  she  seemed  to  find  no 
particular  interest:  she  gave  no  sign  of  being  conscious  of  his 
gaze. 

At  first  he  thought  that  her  failure  to  be  like  her  mother 
was  so  disappointing  as  to  remove  the  main  element  of  interest; 


86  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

gradually,  however,  he  began  to  feel  it,  on  the  contrary,  as  a 
gain.  To  be  Mrs.  Leonard  was  certainly  everything;  but  to  be 
like  her  would  probably  have  been  nothing,  a  hope  perpetually 
frustrated,  an  expectation  never  carried  out.  This  girl  was 
not  a  suggestion  or  a  reminder.  She  was  an  individual  about 
whom  everything  remained  to  be  discovered.  That  spelt  an 
adventure  of  the  personal  sort,  for,  if  one  might  assign  traits 
to  recognisable  sources — her  voice  to  her  mother,  her  slow,  clear 
annunciation  to  Cambridge,  her  calm  to  youth  and  a  good  educa- 
tion— behind  them  he  guessed  at  a  personality  about  which  he 
knew  nothing  except  that  he  could  not  classify  it.  And  this 
constituted  a  rarity. 

The  babble  went  on,  vague,  inconsequent,  leading  to  nothing. 
It  was  mostly  about  people,  and  there  seemed  no  reason  why  it 
should  ever  stop.  At  last  Jimmy  O'Connor  looked  at  his  watch, 
turned  to  Miss  Leonard,  and  reminded  her  that  if  she  were 
going  eastwards  (she  was  apparently  living  at  the  moment  in  a 
Settlement,  though  she  did  not  like  it),  it  was  already  late. 
Evidently  he  had  an  arrangement  to  convey  her  home.  Their 
departure  broke  up  the  party,  which  no  one  seemed  to  regret. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

THE  power  to  see  each  day  as  a  unit,  existing  in  and  for  itself, 
is  often  defined  as  the  secret  of  happiness.  Such  a  view 
may  imply  a  pessimistic  conception  of  life  as  a  whole,  but  it 
has  the  validity  which  belongs  to  the  assertion  that  when  ignorance 
is  bliss,  to  be  wise  is  folly;  a  deep  saying,  insufficiently  probed. 
Nigel  Strode  possessed  the  power  of  living  from  day  to  day  in  a 
high  degree;  if,  when  he  thought  of  life  as  a  whole,  he  thought 
badly  of  it,  he  must,  if  quite  honest,  also  have  admitted  that 
he  thought  on  these  lines  but  seldom.  This  faculty  had  been 
little,  if  at  all,  impaired  by  living  with  Hugh  Infield.  Hugh  had 
a  passion  for  seeing  connections;  but  it  seemed  to  Nigel  that  the 
preoccupation  with  the  vision  of  each  thing  as  related  to  others 
prevented  any  sight,  far  less  any  enjoyment,  of  it  as  it  was  in 
itself.  He  disliked  connections.  They  seemed  to  reduce  ex- 
perience to  a  dull  pattern.  He  liked  individual  blobs  of  colour, 
each  of  which  came  to  him  with  the  freshness  of  a  thing  entirely 
new.  On  the  other  hand,  each  day  being  an  end  in  itself,  he 
resented  sharply  one  that  played  him  false,  such  as  seemed  to 
be  foreshadowed  when,  on  the  morning  after  the  evening  at  the 
Cafe  Regal,  he  got  up  with  a  headache  and  a  sense  of  vague 
depression.  He  had  slept  badly,  with  absurd  dreams  in  which 
Jenkins,  with  the  head  of  a  yellow  tom-cat,  followed  him  about 
through  a  labyrinth  of  mean  streets. 

His  room,  when  he  came  in  for  breakfast,  still  smelt  thickly 
of  tobacco  and  discussion.  He  glanced  at  the  table.  There 
was  nothing  to  be  expected  of  the  newspaper.  Even  the  New 
World  lying  in  its  pale  blue  wrapper  roused  no  interest — he  did 
not  open  it;  and  beyond  that  the  post  had  brought  nothing  but 

87 


88  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

a  little  roll  of  Press  cuttings,  two  notices  of  meetings  (Race 
Regeneration  and  the  Arbitration  League),  which  he  began  to 
throw  into  the  fire,  then  leaned  up  upon  the  mantelpiece;  and 
an  invitation  to  what  Gervase  O'Connor  called  a  "stand-up," 
which  he  stuck  into  the  frame  of  the  big  "Virgin  of  the  Rocks. " 
Breakfast  looked  uninviting.  He  poured  out  some  tea  and 
replaced  the  lid  on  the  bacon  dish,  then  moved  across  the  room 
and  threw  the  bottom  of  the  window  wide. 

The  wind,  which  had  been  making  the  slim  branches  of  the 
ash-tree  wave,  rushed  in,  fresh  and  delicious.  Nigel  leaned  out; 
there  was  something  wonderful  in  the  air.  It  smelt  new.  The 
flags  in  the  little  yard  were  drying;  what  had  been  a  continuous 
puddle  last  night  had  shrunk  to  a  few  small  pools  of  water. 
The  sky  beyond  the  roof-tops  was  blue  and  white  and  shining, 
the  spires  dazzling  white.  It  was  a  day  for  the  country. 

He  turned  back  into  the  room  and  fingered  the  telephone. 
Yes,  the  country  was  the  thing;  but  in  whose  company?  Myrtle 
Toller  would  come,  no  doubt,  but  he  was  not  sure  that  he  wanted 
her;  she  had  lost  her  charm  latterly,  and  if  she  insisted  on  bring- 
ing Chris  Bampton,  that  would  be  a  bore,  as  he  should  have  to 
sit  alone  in  front.  Lois  Drew?  He  shook  his  head;  she  was 
absorbed  in  some  one  else,  and  he  didn't  want  to  hear  about  it. 
Jane  Sandys,  much  the  nicest  of  the  trio  who  lived  together — 
Chris,  Gertrude  and  Jane — had  disappeared  into  her  engage- 
ment, and  Gertrude  Fenner's  bitterness  would  jar.  The  thought 
of  Mrs.  Nugent  revived  his  headache.  Infield  was  not  coming 
back  till  the  evening,  and  he  did  not  want  Infield.  This  was 
not  the  day  either  for  silence  or  argument;  it  was  a  day  for  being 
happy — but  again  with  whom?  As  Nigel  pondered,  he  had  sat 
down  at  the  table  and  eaten  an  excellent  breakfast.  The  air 
caressed  his  face  and  touched  his  hair  softly.  Anyhow  he  must 
go  out;  he  could  at  least  walk  across  the  Park  towards  the  garage, 
and  trust  to  luck.  He  lit  a  cigarette  as  he  ran  downstairs. 

As  he  passed  out  of  the  cold  shadows  of  the  Government 
offices  and  turned  into  St.  James's  Park,  Nigel  almost  clapped  his 
hands,  for  he  suddenly  realised  what  had  happened.  In  the 
Strand  one  might  be  dubious;  the  Strand  was  not  in  touch  with 
Nature's  secrecies;  the  pavements  shone  only  because  the  rain 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  89 

had  washed  them,  and  the  sky  only  because  the  houses  could  not 
shut  off  all  the  sun;  that  might  happen  any  day.  And  the 
people  were  the  usual  ugly  men  and  women  of  the  town,  exhala- 
tions of  the  pavements,  whose  home  was  not  under  the  sky,  but 
in  the  streets.  But  in  the  Park  it  shouted  at  him  from  the  blue 
of  the  shimmering  water,  the  emerald  of  the  grass,  the  gold  and 
purple  of  the  crocuses,  the  chequered  loveliness  of  the  air. 
Spring  had  come.  It  was  still  March  by  the  calendar,  and  to- 
morrow it  might  be  March  in  fact,  as  it  had  been  yesterday  and 
all  the  dark  days  of  the  week;  but  to-day  spring  was  looking  out 
of  her  window,  revealing  herself  for  all  with  eyes  to  see,  sweeter 
in  her  coy  boldness  than  later  when  she  came  heralded  and  recog- 
nised in  the  greenness  of  trees  and  the  bursting  forth  of  flowers. 
There  was  something  subtly  delightful,  he  felt,  as  he  strolled 
slowly  on,  in  the  idea  that  these  sensations  were  not  being  shared 
by  everybody,  but  were  peculiarly  his.  In  May  the  beauty  of 
London  almost  bored  him,  because  every  one  felt  it  and  praised 
it,  and  people  who  had  no  right  to  that  beauty  came  crowding 
up  to  fill  up  expensive  houses,  praising  and  enjoying  because  to 
praise  and  to  enjoy  was  "the  thing. "  This  morning's  loveliness 
was  untainted;  it  could  not  even  last.  To-morrow  it  would 
probably  be  blotted  out  in  rain;  the  sky  would  return  to  lead, 
the  paths  to  mud,  the  trees  to  blackness.  The  thought  of  that 
shadow  gave  the  final  exquisite  touch  to  the  radiance  of  to-day, 
and  Nigel  was  so  happy  as  he  walked  along,  perceiving  and  not 
thinking,  that  the  plan  he  had  come  out  with  vanished  from  his 
mind.  He  leaned  long  over  the  bridge  that  spanned  the  orna- 
mental water  to  watch  the  crowding  birds;  he  paused  at  Hyde 
Park  Corner  to  enjoy  the  almost  Parisian  aspect  of  the  scene 
under  the  washed  clearness  of  the  sky,  and  entering  Hyde  Park, 
left  the  Row,  with  its  few  belated  riders  and  early  nursemaids, 
to  turn  up  into  a  less-frequented  path.  Thick  through  the  grass 
the  crocuses  shone  splendid :  first  a  splash  of  purple,  then  one  of 
brilliant  gold,  then  all  running  together,  purple,  gold  and  white. 
Beyond  them,  blue-green  leaves  of  daffodils  and  tulips,  in 
serried  ranks;  no  flowers  yet,  but  fat  buds  ready  to  burst;  and 
sheltered  from  the  wind  and  exhaling  a  wondrous  sweetness 
in  the  sun,  a  bed  of  hyacinths,  blue,  purple,  pink,  white  and 


90  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

red.  And  suddenly  almond  blossom.  He  must  have  seen  it 
before,  but  this  time  it  made  him  stop  and  cry  out.  Three 
exquisite  trees,  tall  and  slender,  stood  laden  as  with  drifted 
snow  with  pink;  pink  that  against  the  blue  and  white  of  the 
sky  was  an  intoxication. 

Nigel  left  the  path  and  stepped  on  to  the  grass  to  draw  nearer 
to  the  little  trees  and  see  whether  the  blue  lying  at  their  roots 
was  a  bit  of  sky  dropped  down  or  some  unknown  flower.  As  he 
approached  he  saw  that  some  one  was  there  before  him.  Tilted 
back  on  a  little  green  chair,  beneath  one  of  the  leafless,  flower- 
crowned  trees,  a  young  man  was  sitting;  that  is  to  say,  the  back 
of  his  neck  lay  on  the  rail  of  the  chair  and  some  portion  of  his 
body,  resting  against  it,  supported  the  equilibrium  of  his  ex- 
tended limbs.  His  hat  had  apparently  fallen  off,  for  it  lay  on 
the  ground  beside  him;  his  hands  were  in  his  pockets,  his  eyes 
on  the  sky.  This  absorption  suggested  by  his  whole  attitude 
was  genuine,  for  he  neither  heard  Nigel  Strode's  approach  nor 
immediately  replied  when  the  latter  called  upon  him  by  name. 
At  a  second  appeal  he  righted  himself  and,  assuming  a  normal 
sitting  posture,  accepted  his  friend's  greeting. 

"  Stunning,  isn't  it?  "  He  waved  a  hand  vaguely  to  indicate 
the  scene  around.  "Really,  the  lines  of  these  little  black 
branches  against  that  striped  blue  and  white  would  be  enough 
to  make  one  silly,  if  one  left  out  all  the  pink  stuff;  but  with  it 
too!  My  God!" 

Nigel  looked  at  Gervase  O'Connor,  for  it  was  he,  conscious 
of  a  distinct  displeasure  in  the  fact  that  the  young  man  felt  the 
day  not  less,  but  perhaps  more,  than  he  did.  Gervase  spoiled 
his  own  sense  of  unique  awareness,  and  with  his  intolerable 
glib  expressiveness  he  must  blurt  it  all  out.  Nigel  was  annoyed, 
and  annoyed  at  being  annoyed.  But  Jimmy  was  blandly 
unconscious.  He  sat  there,  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  an  im- 
maculate grey  suit,  his  outstretched  purple  socks  matching  the 
purple  of  his  tie,  with  no  thoughts  but  his  own. 

' '  Heavens  above ! "  he  cried.  "  I  want  to  lie  down  and  thank 
some  God,  Pan,  or  one  of  them  that  made  the  world,  for  having 
made  me  in  it!  Just  smell  the  air!  Isn't  it  like  fifty  scent- 
sprays,  or  a  florist's  shop  in  June?  And  the  sky!  Sit  here  and 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  91 

look  up.  Do  you  see  the  pink  mosaiced  on  to  the  white  and 
blue?  If  that  long-haired  friend  of  Myrtle's  could  paint  that  or 
want  to  paint  anything  so  lovely,  he'd  make  a  fortune.  Jove, 
it's  good  to  be  alive!" 

He  stretched  himself,  as  if  to  take  into  his  lungs  the  largest 
possible  draught  of  the  divine  ether.  Nigel  laughed  and  sat 
down  beside  him. 

"Don't  laugh,  you  silly  cynic!  Envy  me!  I'm  alive! 
I'm  twenty-six.  It's  spring,  and  I'm  in  love!  Oh,  world  as 
God  has  made  it!  And  so  on  ad  infinitum.  Oh,  it's  all  very 
well  for  you,  Nigel,  to  make  your  eyes  round.  I  don't  care. 
Nothing  else  is  real  but  that. " 

Jimmy  laughed  aloud  as  if  he  could  not  help  it.  Nigel  felt 
his  irritation  streaked  with  new  feelings,  envy  predominating. 

"What,  Jimmy,  again!"  he  murmured,  handing  his  penny 
to  the  tax-gatherer  who  had  sprung  up  out  of  the  unknown. 

Jimmy  sat  up. 

"Oh,  stow  it,  Strode.  Never  before.  Only  this  time,  this 
time  it's  real;  it's  the  thing  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land.  You 
know. " 

"I?  How  should  I?"  There  was  a  trace  of  bitterness  in 
his  tone,  but  the  other  was  too  entirely  absorbed  to  notice  it. 
He  merely  laughed  aloud  again.  "Oh,  come,  you  old  philan- 
derer," he  cried.  "Who  should  know,  if  not  you?  Though  I 
dare  say  you've  only  wet  your  feet.  I'm  head  over  ears;  water 
in  my  mouth  and  eyes;  nothing  else  but  it  in  all  the  world. 
Never  mind!  I  won't  talk  to  you  if  it  annoys  you.  I  shall  go 
to  Infield.  He'll  enjoy  the  bitterness  of  looking  into  Paradise 
through  another  man's  eyes,  and  I  fancy  he  may  understand,  if 
any  one  can.  You  can't,  I  see.  You're  a  cold-blooded  fish, 
after  all,  aren't  you?" 

He  began  to  whistle  as  he  leaned  back  again,  gazing  upward 
into  the  almond  blossom.  Nigel  felt  that  he  had  wasted  his 
penny.  Jimmy  did  not  want  him,  and  he  did  not  want  Jimmy. 
He  rose  to  go.  The  sun  had  gone  in  and  the  air  was  sharp. 
Jimmy,  hatless,  did  not  seem  to  feel  it.  His  sun  still  shone. 

A  thought  struck  Nigel. 

"  Do  I  know  her?  "  he  asked,  pausing  as  he  turned  to  go. 


92  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

Jimmy  opened  his  eyes,  surprisingly  blue,  when  his  thick 
dark  lashes  were  raised  and  his  normal  frown  smoothed  out. 

"Know  her?  No.  No  one  knows  her.  You've  met  her, 
I  dare  say.  There's  only  one  person  it  could  be,  so  I  give  you 
one  guess.  No,  on  second  thoughts  I  shan't  even  give  you  that. 
I'll  shout  her  name  at  you,  because  at  present  to  be  in  love  with 
her's  enough  for  me.  I  daren't  even  think  of  what's  in  her  mind. 
Daphne  .  .  .  Daphne  .  .  .  Daphne  Leonard.  Listen  to  the 
music  of  it."  Jimmy  paused,  as  if  with  that  sound  echoing 
in  his  ears  he  wanted  no  more.  Then  he  glanced  at  Nigel. 

"Ah,  I  dare  say  you  can't  bear  it!  Think  me  an  ass,  my 
dear  Strode,  or  any  mortal  thing  you  like;  but  I  tell  you  I'm 
happy.  Be  my  witness  to  that;  whatever  happens  I  shan't 
have  lived  in  vain.  '  He  who  has  once  been  happy  is  for  aye  out 
of  destruction's  reach.'  I  used  to  think  it  rot;  but  now  I  know 
it's  true." 

Nigel  Strode  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  away.  The 
voice  of  Gervase  rang  in  his  ears;  but  he  was  not  thinking  of 
him — he  was  merely  conscious  that  his  happiness  of  half-an-hour 
ago  had  gone,  and  left  uppermost  a  sense  of  weariness  and 
futility,  of  dissatisfaction  with  himself.  He  had  told  Mrs. 
Leonard  that  he  felt  himself  to  be  waiting;  this  morning  he 
seemed  to  realise  that  he  waited  still,  but  with  less  and  less  of 
hope.  What  was  it  that  one  waited  for?  he  asked  himself  as  he 
walked  on.  Gervase,  if  he  had  been  waiting,  which  seemed 
unlikely,  for  waiting  was  not  in  his  character,  had  found  his 
answer  in  a  strong  emotion  that  whirled  him  away;  but  as  Nigel 
asked  himself  whether  he  wanted  such  a  whirl,  the  reply  came, 
obscure  and  muffled — he  was  not  sure.  One  did  not  know  what 
the  whirl  would  be  like;  the  unknown  grew  more,  and  not  less 
terrifying  as  one  knew  more  and  more  of  the  known.  And  yet, 
and  yet — to  feel  as  Jimmy  felt  was  to  live;  and  Jimmy  knew  it. 
Nigel  sighed. 

For  some  time  he  had  been  walking  behind  a  young  woman, 
at  first  a  long  way  ahead  of  him  on  the  straight  path ;  then,  his 
steps  quickening  mechanically  as  his  mind  worked,  the  distance 
reduced  itself;  and  now,  as  he  came  within  measurable  space,  he 
was  struck  by  something  familiar  in  her  carriage.  Familiar,  and 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  93 

yet  strange;  for  Aurelia  Leonard  was  abroad.  Aurelia  Leonard 
was  abroad,  yes,  but  her  daughter  was  in  London,  and  the  girl 
in  front  of  him,  whose  blue  dress  was  like  a  darker  piece  of  sky 
walking  along  the  path  as  her  light,  swinging  step  was  a  free 
translation  of  the  exhilaration  of  the  morning,  was,  of  course, 
Daphne.  Nigel  felt  his  lost  satisfaction  given  back  to  him. 
He  quickened  his  pace,  and,  calling  out  a  gay  "  Good-morning, " 
made  the  girl  turn  a  three-quarter  face  to  him  as  he  came  up. 

She  looked  at  him  a  little  vaguely,  though  she  smiled. 

"Ah!"  he  murmured.  "You  don't  remember  me;  you've 
forgotten  me  already?  " 

A  faint  flush  deepened  the  rose  which  the  wind  had  blown  on 
to  her  pale  cheeks.  " But  I  do, "  she  answered.  "We  met  last 
night;  of  course  I  do.  I  don't  know  you,  but  I  know  who  you 
are.  You're  Mr.  Strode,  Hugh  Infield's  Mr.  Strode,  and  you 
know  my  mother  too,  I  think?  "  She  looked  at  him,  and  he  saw 
that  her  eyes  were  not  simply  dark,  as  he  had  imagined  the  night 
before,  but  within  their  short,  thick  lashes,  grey;  the  eyes  of 
Aurelia,  with  something  of  Aurelia's  troubling  directness  of  gaze. 
He  smiled  as  he  answered — 

"I  must  certainly  try  quickly  to  establish  an  identity  of 
my  own.  I  can't  exist  simply  in  other  people's  guarantees. 
You  must  know  me,  not  merely  know  who  I  am. " 

"Yes,"  she  nodded  gravely;  "but  anyhow  I  should  have  to. 
I  never  can  use  anybody  else's  experience.  That's  what  makes 
me  so  slow. " 

Nigel  looked  at  her.  His  satisfaction  was  growing.  He  had 
been  right  in  his  judgment  last  night.  That  pleased  him. 
There  was  something  in  this  girl  entirely  fresh.  If  an  edge 
had  been  given  to  his  interest  in  her,  if  she  were  somehow 
hall-marked  by  what  Jimmy  had  just  told  him,  he  was  uncon- 
scious of  the  extent  to  which  that  operated  in  his  mind.  He 
merely  told  himself  that  there  was  something  exhilarating  in 
the  thought  of  getting  to  know  her,  to  which  a  touch  of  ad- 
venture was  added  by  the  notion  of  setting  up  her  opinion  of 
him  against  the  opinion  she  might  receive,  or  have  received, 
from  her  mother. 

"But  are  you  slow?"  he  said,  surveying  her  clothes.     They 


94  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

pleased  him  in  spite  of  their  extreme  simplicity;  there  was  a 
kind  of  distinction  even  in  that.  Her  gloves  and  shoes  were 
quite  right  too. 

"Yes.  About  most  things  very.  .  .  .  Sometimes,  though, 
one  feels  as  if  the  whole  time  were  being  set  quicker,  when  there's 
a  rush,  like  this,  into  spring;  one's  hurried  on  too,  isn't  one?  I'm 
not  sure  whether  I  like  it. "  She  paused. 

"Ah!"  he  cried.  "Don't  say  that.  I'm  sure  it's  those 
sudden  instinctive  rushes  that  are  true  that  count  and  that  make 
one.  What  one  feels  this  morning " 

Their  eyes  met.  Nigel's  heart  suddenly  irrationally  beat 
fast;  he  was  aware  of  an  excitement  mounting  to  his  brain,  the 
sense  of  adventure  growing,  growing,  carrying  him  away.  Her 
expression  had  not  changed,  but  as  she  looked  at  him  her  eyes 
wore  the  reflected  brilliance  of  the  sky  on  which  they  had  before 
been  fixed,  and  seemed  to  cast  that  radiance  on  and  draw  it 
out  of  him.  He  went  on  eagerly — 

"Don't  let's  lose  it;  it's  so  exquisite,  isn't  it?" 

He  waved  his  hand  over  the  Round  Pond  by  which  they 
had  found  themselves  standing,  and  which  was  like  a  fairy 
mirror  as  it  glassed  the  delicate  tracery  of  the  trees  in  a  wondrous 
criss-cross  over  blue  and  white,  and  echoed  the  happy  cries  of 
the  children  trying  to  make  little  boats  move  over  its  still  sur- 
face. Daphne  said  nothing,  but  her  hands  were  clasped  tight, 
and  through  her  faintly  parted  lips  he  knew  the  breath  was 
coming  fast. 

"I'm  just  going  across  to  get  my  little  car.  Come  off  for  an 
hour.  We  can  get  into  real  country,  better  than  this  loveliest 
pretence,  and  catch  spring  just  in  the  act.  It's  the  one  day 
in  the  year.  Do  come ! " 

He  was  afraid  that  the  sudden  eagerness  he  felt  might 
frighten  her.  His  tone  was  light  and  careless,  but  his  eyes 
might  be  sparkling  with  the  excitement  that  he  knew.  Daphne, 
however,  did  not  look  at  him.  She  stood  by  his  side  with  her 
gloveless  hands  locked  together,  her  eyes  not  on  him,  but  on 
the  reflections  in  the  water,  and  he  felt  that  her  thoughts  were 
concerned  with  herself,  not  him.  The  realisation  heightened 
his  desire.  She  existed  solidly,  he  felt  sure;  she  was  a  person- 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  95 

ality,  self-regulating,  self-moving,  independent  of  the  words 
and  thoughts  of  others.  Not  like  himself.  If  she  came  it 
would  be  because  she  wanted  to  come;  and  when  she  looked  up, 
as  a  vivid  burst  of  sunshine  dazzled  down  on  to  her  head,  and 
smiled,  he  had  an  irresistible  inclination  to  take  her  hand  and 
run.  Her  smile  gave  him  back  the  impression  long  ago  re- 
ceived from  the  drawing  in  her  mother's  room:  the  impression 
of  youth,  youth  with  its  splendid  sureness  and  recklessness. 
Her  smile  said,  "Yes,  she  would  come,"  and  that  gave  him  a 
sense  of  triumph.  Triumph  was  a  big  feeling  disproportionate 
to  so  small  an  occasion.  That,  on  so  fine  a  morning,  a  girl 
should  accept  the  suggestion  of  a  motor  ride  was  surely  nothing. 
But  Nigel  could  not  feel  that  it  was  nothing  that  Daphne 
Leonard  had  accepted.  He  had,  half  consciously,  been  trying 
his  luck ;  and  trying  it  against  the  luck  of  some  one  else.  He  had 
won.  The  day  was  going  to  be  a  good  day,  and  sufficient  for 
the  day  the  goodness  thereof. 

Nigel  Strode  was  a  skilful  driver;  the  little  car  passed  every- 
thing on  the  road.  Daphne  sat  by  him,  saying  nothing,  but 
he  felt  that  she  was  aware  of  everything  that  happened.  She 
knew  when  they  were  racing  the  big  yellow  Daimler  along  the 
Richmond  Road  and  that  it  was  by  clever  steering  that  they 
passed  it;  she  saw  the  first  pale  green  on  a  hawthorn  hedge,  the 
first  patch  of  daffodils  in  a  sunny,  sheltered  garden;  he  knew 
from  the  quick  intake  of  her  breath  that  she  caught  sight  of  the 
downs  when  they  suddenly  for  an  instant  came  into  sight. 
Nothing,  he  guessed,  could  be  dull  in  her  company.  Her  silence 
was  as  alert  and  alive  as  speech.  They  might  go  on  for  hours 
saying  nothing  and  yet  be  very  much  together. 

But  the  most  vivid  of  impressions  was  with  Nigel  before 
long  replaced  by  something  else,  and  interest  in  and  appreciation 
of  Daphne's  silence  soon  made  him  long  to  hear  her  speak. 

"Motoring  doesn't  send  you  to  sleep?"  he  asked.  She  said 
nothing;  merely  smiled  at  the  absurd  and  superfluous  question. 

They  sped  on  for  another  half -hour.  The  day  was  fulfilling 
its  promise  royally.  The  sky  swung  higher  overhead  as  they 
left  the  straggling  outskirts  of  London  behind  and  escaped  into 
wide  fields;  the  clouds  were  bigger,  more  magnificently  blown 


96  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

across  the  blue  in  sweeping  lines  like  the  pathway  of  a  visible 
breath;  in  the  trees  the  birds  shouted  and  sang;  the  fields  were 
vividly  green,  and  the  shallow  water  that  lay  flooded  over  many 
of  them  reflected  the  sky;  on  the  commons  the  gorse  was  out 
in  great  golden  masses,  and  the  scent  of  it  rose  up  like  cocoanut, 
a  splendid  earthy  smell. 

Suddenly  Daphne  spoke. 

"I'm  hungry,"  she  said. 

Nigel  laughed  out  in  delight  at  her.     He  took  out  his  watch, 

"And  so  you've  every  right  to  be;  it's  nearly  two  o'clock. 
I  tell  you  what:  we'll  stop  at  Burford  Bridge — we're  nearly 
there  now;  this  is  Mickleham — and  get  some  bread-and-cheese, 
and  run  up  the  hill. " 

"Yes — I  feel  I  want  to  run;  motoring  is  good,  but  one  wants 
to  be  doing  it  oneself. " 

When  they  stopped  she  jumped  out  and  declared  that  he 
must  get  the  food  and  follow  while  she  ran  straight  up.  She 
did  not  ask  him  whether  that  plan  would  please  him;  it  was 
what  she  intended  to  do.  She  could  not  wait  for  him;  no,  she 
wanted  to  run  this  minute;  and  while  he  stood  looking  at  her, 
preparing  to  argue  in  favour  of  the  greater  convenience  of  lunch 
indoors  first,  and  greater  pleasure  of  running  up  together  after- 
wards, she  had  started.  Her  easy,  rapid  stride  had  carried  her 
well  up  the  steep  white  chalk  track  before  he  could  protest. 
Nigel  stood  staring  after  her.  She  was  a  masterful  young 
thing,  he  said  to  himself,  smiling;  but  how  alive,  alive  with  a 
vitality  that  fed  itself;  real,  with  just  that  independence  that 
he  missed  in  himself.  His  thoughts  were  pleasant  as  he  strolled 
up  the  steep  path  more  slowly,  because  of  his  loaf  and  cheese 
and  ginger-beer  bottles.  Strolling  was  an  affair  of  choice;  he 
could  have  run  as  fast  as  she,  he  knew.  Being  thirty-eight 
did  not  mean  that  you  could  not  run,  unless  you  let  yourself 
not  want  to  do  so.  Infield  might  refuse  to  run  and  let  his 
muscles  atrophy;  Nigel  kept  his  own  hard  and  springy.  Sud- 
denly, for  no  reason,  the  thought  of  Gervase  came  into  his  mind. 
Poor  Jimmy.  He  might  have  asked  him  to  come  too.  He 
might;  but  if  he  had,  he  should  have  spoiled  his  own  day;  and 
his  own  day  was  being  very  good.  And  would  Daphne  have 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  97 

been  glad?  Well,  if  Jimmy  had  come  she  might  have  found 
that  she  was  glad ;  but  as  he  had  not — if  there  were  a  place  wait- 
ing to  be  filled,  it  was  not  now  Jimmy's.  Chances  to  him 
who  can  take  them.  Nigel  found  his  pace  so  quickened  that 
it  was  almost  a  run,  and  the  balancing  of  the  ginger-beer  bottles 
precarious.  Reaching  the  top,  he  did  not  at  once  see  Daphne. 
Independence  was  a  delightful  quality;  but  if  she  were  so  inde- 
pendent of  him  as  to  enjoy  the  wonders  of  the  top  of  Box  Hill 
alone,  it  had  drawbacks.  After  all,  he  had  brought  her  out 
for  his  pleasure  as  much  as  for  her  own,  and  to  disappear  at 
the  crisis  was  not  playing  the  game. 

At  last  under  a  tree  he  caught  sight  of  a  patch  of  blue,  which 
showed  him  where  she  was,  and  he  quickly  turned  in  that  direc- 
tion. Daphne  was  lying  full  length  on  her  face  on  the  dry  brown 
leaves  that  covered  all  the  ground,  and  glowed  now  with  an 
almost  crimson  hue  as  the  sun  touched  them.  With  her  chin 
on  her  hands,  she  was  gazing  out  at  the  wide  landscape  ex- 
tended all  around  her,  so  absorbed  that  she  did  not  hear  Nigel's 
feet  rustling  among  the  leaves  as  he  approached.  She  had  taken 
off  her  hat,  and  he  saw  that  her  hair,  which  he  had  imagined, 
the  night  before,  rather  pale  and  colourless,  was  really  a  warm 
brown,  with  streaks  of  light  in  it.  It  was  quite  straight,  very 
soft  and  fine,  and  bound  close  round  her  head  with  yellow  shell 
hairpins,  like  a  little  cap.  It  was  the  sort  of  hair,  Nigel  thought, 
that  one  wanted  instinctively  to  stroke;  he  could  imagine  the 
delicious  feel  of  it,  and  how  it  would  stir,  electric,  under  the 
touch. 

At  his  call  she  turned  her  head  and  sat  up.  He  noticed  the 
supple  grace  of  her  rather  slow  movement;  it  suggested,  as  her 
easy  stride  up  the  hillside  had  done,  muscles  under  admirable 
control,  and  strong.  Nigel  sat  down  at  her  feet,  and  they  shared 
the  bread  and  cheese  he  had  brought  and  the  ginger-beer. 
Daphne  said  very  little.  Even  when,  with  cigarettes  lit,  they 
lay  side  by  side  on  the  crunching  leaves,  he  placed  so  that  he 
could  watch  her  face,  she  with  her  eyes  on  the  blue  distance, 
she  only  made  a  remark  at  long  intervals.  Then,  too,  it  was 
only  by  way  of  comment  or  question  on  the  scene  before  them. 
Her  comments  were  cool  and  not  particularly  enthusiastic;  her 


98  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

questions  directed  to  grasping  the  lie  of  the  land.  But  though 
she  said  little,  Nigel  could  see  the  glow  in  her  eyes,  and  he  won- 
dered whether  she  did  not  perhaps  feel  the  beauty  of  it  all  more 
than  he  with  his  articulate  admiration.  Such  a  question  often 
rose  in  his  mind;  he  was  apt  to  stop  in  the  middle  of  any  sensa- 
tion to  feel  his  own  pulse,  in  the  hope,  generally  defeated,  of 
finding  it  gallop.  This  girl  clearly  was  absorbed  in  the  act  of 
seeing  and  feeling,  unconscious  of  herself  as  seeing  and  feeling. 
There  were  people  like  that.  He  wanted  to  investigate.  But 
her  silence  hung  a  veil  between  them,  and  his  impatience  had 
no  time  for  its  tranquil  beauty.  He  wanted  her  light  upon 
himself,  to  compare  her  mind  with  his.  She  gave  him,  even  in 
her  silence,  curious  and  interesting  feelings  about  himself,  es- 
pecially when  he  looked  at  her,  as  her  absorption  allowed  him 
to  do. 

"  Don't  you  ever  talk?  "  he  asked  at  last. 

"Talk?"  She  brought  her  eyes  back  to  him  for  a  moment. 
"I  don't  know.  At  Newnham  we  used  to  argue " 

"Ah,  I  don't  mean  argument." 

She  looked  at  him  questioningly. 

"I  like  listening  best,  I  think.  My  thoughts  come  out  so 
slowly.  .  .  .  Mother  talks  wonderfully;  I  love  listening  to 
her.  .  .  .  You  talk  a  lot  too,  don't  you?  I  admire  people  who 
can  talk;  it  must  mean  such  self-command." 

Nigel  pondered  for  a  moment  over  the  last  phrase,  but 
decided  to  drop  it.  Daphne  went  on  after  a  moment — 

"I  hope  you  don't  mind  my  not  talking?" 

Nigel  smiled. 

"Mind?    No.     I  am  happy." 

"Are  you?"  She  glanced  at  him,  and  then  quickly  returned 
to  the  landscape.  "So  am  I.  ...  But  aren't  you  generally 
happy?  You  say  it  as  though  you  weren't. " 

This  was  better.     Nigel  sat  up. 

"  If  I  could  give  up  expecting  I  should  be,  I  think,  and  that's 
why  I  sometimes  feel  I  shall  leave  London  and  come  to  live  in 
the  country.  ...  In  the  country  one  would  know  that  excite- 
ment was  excluded;  one  would  accept  a  lower  level  and  be  satis- 
fied. Contemplation  is  probably  the  only  lasting  feeling. 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  99 

But  it's  difficult  to  accept.  In  London,  where  one  feels  excite- 
ment all  round  and  oneself  out  of  it,  nearly  impossible.  Impos- 
sible, at  least,  for  me.  Should  you  like  to  live  in  the  country?" 

Daphne  looked  surprised. 

"I?  Oh,  I  never  thought  of  it.  ...  I  don't  know.  I  find 
the  country  very  exciting. "  She  paused;  then,  as  he  seemed  to 
wait,  went  on  slowly,  "I  don't  think  I  understand  your  feeling, 
really.  You  want  excitement,  but  you  don't  believe  in  it  for 
yourself.  Is  that  it?" 

Nigel  nodded. 

"  I  don't  believe  in  it  because  modern  life  doesn't  seem  to  me 
to  make  it  possible.  .  .  .  It's  education,  I  suppose.  One  feels 
all  the  centuries  behind  pressing  on  one  so  that  everything 
is  really  settled,  and  one  can't  make  any  difference.  And  one's 
nerves  are  over-educated  too,  so  that  they  respond  to  too  many 

stimuli  at  once.  .  .  .  The  result  is "  He  paused;  then,  as 

she  said  nothing,  went  on,  "The  result  is  that  one's  hopelessly 
cut  off  from  the  stronger,  simpler  emotions  of  less,  what  we 
call  less,  civilised  people.  In  the  country  one  might  get  back 
to  them." 

"I  see,"  said  Daphne  slowly.  "You  don't  really  want 
to  contemplate;  you  want  to  be  made  to  feel.  What  I  don't 
quite  see  is,  why?" 

"Ah,"  he  cried  "you've  never  felt  utterly  weary  of  your- 
self." 

She  gave  a  little  sudden  smile. 

"But  surely  feeling  makes  you  more  yourself  than  ever? 
Not  less." 

"In  a  way,  yes,  but  it  makes  you  a  new  self:  a  simpler, 

deeper,  less  complicated  one.  Like He  paused,  casting 

about  for  an  analogy.  "It's  like  freeing  the  water  that  had 
had  an  ornamental  fountain  and  letting  it  rush  out  as  a  moun- 
tain brook. " 

"But  that,"  Daphne  smiled,  "would  surely  be  a  great  pity 
from  the  gardener's  point  of  view." 

"Ah,  your  garden,"  cried  Nigel,  "is  just  right.  Modern 
life  is  like  a  huge,  a  dreadfully  tidy  garden,  with  plants  growing 
in  beds,  all  the  same  and  yet  wondrously  variegated,  and  ranged 


100  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

in  neat,  orderly  rows.  Wonderful  others,  in  hothouses,  that 
have  lost  the  sap  of  individual  life  altogether.  And  all  of  them 
are  tended  and  ordered  by  armies  of  dull,  soulless  gardeners. 
If  only  the  fountain  could  be  turned  into  a  brook  and  sweep 
over  the  whole  thing  all  sorts  of  strong,  strange-coloured 
plants " 

"  Weeds?" 

"Weeds,  if  you  like,  would  spring  up." 

"You  want,  I  see,  to  go  back  to  a  wilderness?"  Daphne 
spoke  more  quickly. 

"There  are  things  about  the  wilderness  that  we've  lost  that 
are  better  than  anything  we've  got.  In  the  wilderness  there's 
life,  the  struggle  for  survival.  And  in  that  struggle  there'd  be 
excitement.  Do  you  see  what  I  mean?  " 

Daphne's  cheeks  were  flushed  and  she  was  sitting  upright 
now,  with  her  hands  clasped  round  her  knees. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said;  "you're  very  exciting.  You 
make  me  feel  the  thousands  of  things  there  are  I  don't  under- 
stand. .  .  .  But — take  your  garden.  Isn't  it  really  truer  to 
say  that  people  are  trying,  awfully  hard,  to  get  life  into  a  garden, 
out  of  a  waste,  but  that  there  are  still  simply  jungles  of  weeds 
that  need  rooting  out,  hard,  deep  weeds  that  will  take  years  of 
digging  up?  The  way  people  hate  foreigners,  I  mean,  and  the 
rich  the  poor,  and  employers  trade  unionists,  and  so  on.  And  all 
the  ugliness  of  life,  and  poverty  and  misery.  .  .  .  Poplar  isn't 
much  like  a  garden.  You're  in  such  a  hurry,  you  know." 
She  paused.  Nigel  broke  in  eagerly — 

"Yes,  I  am,"  he  cried,  "because  I  don't  believe  these 
weeds  will  ever  be  rooted  out;  they  must  be  swept  away  by 
some  big  common  impulse.  Christianity  has  tried  and  failed. 
...  It  needs  some  force  in  men  as  big  as  that,  and  a  force  men 
can  feel  in  common.  As  it  is,  all  our  education  and  civilisation 
is  only  separating  people  more  and  more  .  .  .  instead  of 
bringing  them  nearer.  Look  at  London.  I  know  hundreds  of 
people,  and  have  tens  and  twenties  of  so-called  friends.  ...  If 
I  disappeared,  would  any  of  them  care?  They'd  ring  me  up 
once  or  twice,  and  if  they  got  no  answer  they'd  assume  the 
telephone  was  out  of  order  and  ring  up  some  one  else.  In  a 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  101 

week  they'd  have  forgotten  all  about  me,  unless  I  rang  them 
up.  And  those  are  people  all  of  the  same  sort.  Working  people 
aren't  like  that.  Country  people  aren't. " 

Daphne  wrinkled  her  brows. 

"No,"  she  said,  "they  do  care.  But  there's  awfully  little 
excitement  about  their  lives.  They  feel;  but  their  feelings  are 
very  slow — and  often,  unless  you  knew  them  well,  you'd  never 
guess  they  were  there.  I  don't  think  they'd  satisfy  you. " 

Nigel  looked  at  her.  There  was  something  strange  in  the  way 
her  mind  worked,  so  different  from  his  own,  and  in  the  sense 
she  gave  him,  for  all  her  youth  and  slowness,  of  strength 
and  stability.  He  felt  a  desire  to  tell  her  all  about  himself 
and  hear  her  comments;  see  her  eyes  widening,  as  they  had 
when  he  spoke  of  the  wilderness,  and  filling  with  light. 

"You  want  a  great  deal,  don't  you?"  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I  do.     But  I  despair  of  getting  it." 

Her  eyes  were  on  his  face  now,  and  as  he  looked  up  he  met 
them,  only  to  drop  his  own  before  the  pity  there. 

For  some  few  moments  they  sat  in  silence.  Nigel  thought 
of  many  things  to  say,  but  none  of  them  came  out.  He  was 
suddenly  afraid  of  uttering  a  jarring  note.  For  this  girl,  he 
felt,  for  all  her  strength,  was  sensitive.  Round  them  the  brief 
day  was  fading  fast.  In  the  west  the  sun  was  dying  with  no 
glow,  only  a  thickening  of  the  sky.  Prom  the  valley  below  a 
mist  rose  slowly  and  unfolded  round  them,  wreath  upon  wreath. 

Nigel  rose  to  his  feet;  Daphne  followed,  and  they  walked 
across  the  rustling  leaves  and  down  the  narrow  chalky  path. 

Hardly  anything  was  said  by  either  on  the  drive  home. 
But  as  they  parted  outside  South  Kensington  Station — Daphne 
refused  to  be  taken  further  than  the  nearest  point  to  the  garage 
— Nigel  felt  that  a  great  deal  had  happened,  though  so  little 
had  been  said.  As  he  held  the  girl's  cold  hand  and  tried,  under 
the  brim  of  her  blue- veiled  hat,  to  meet  her  eyes,  he  knew  at 
least  that  Jimmy's  chance,  for  what  it  had  ever  been  worth, 
was  gone. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

1SAY,  Infield,  the  Westminster  has  attacked  the  Govern- 
ment!" 
Entering  his  rooms  on  a  Friday  in  mid-April,  his  arms  full 
of  evening  papers  bulging  with  the  Ulster  crisis,  Nigel  found 
Hugh  Infield  on  his  knees  on  the  floor.     He  was  unpacking  a 
small  case  which  appeared  to  be  full  of  nothing  but  straw,  and 
gave  off  a  curious  smell  of  the  East. 

Hugh  looked  up  in  response  to  his  friend's  appeal.  Nigel 
went  on.  "Can  you  believe  it?  The  Westminster,  which 
always  discovers  that  the  reasons  that  might  have  struck  one 
as  proving  the  Government  to  be  wrong,  in  the  given  case, 
prove  the  exact  contrary!  Seely  will  certainly  have  to  go. 
The  only  question  is  whether  French  will  stay.  I've  been 
writing  about  'Army  v.  People'  all  afternoon,  and  feel  as  if  we 
were  back  in  the  Civil  War. " 

"'Army  versus  People,'"  murmured  Infield.  "So  it  has 
been  found  that  Zabern  doesn't  exist  in  Germany  alone." 

Nigel  shook  his  head.  "Ah,  but  we  won't  stand  that  sort 
of  stuff  here.  We  have  got  beyond  that. " 

"Ulster  doesn't  seem  to  have,  though,  or  the  Tory  press," 
murmured  Hugh. 

Nigel  walked  quickly  up  and  down  the  room.  "I  wonder, " 
he  said.  "It's  extraordinary  to  know  that  people  do  think 
Civil  War  possible.  ...  I  was  lunching  with  Nugent  and  he's 
full  of  the  strangest  rumours.  Says  he  doesn't  believe  them, 
though.  Some  people  say  the  Government  want  Ulster  to  re- 
volt. .  .  .  And  the  things  that  are  believed  about  Winston  are 
simply  farcical.  Of  course,  Gough  ought  to  be  cashiered. 
But  the  Government  has  no  courage. " 

102 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  103 

"Can  you  wonder  the  foreign  newspapers  can't  understand 
us?" 

Nigel  waved  the  foreign  press  aside.  It  did  not  matter. 
He  threw  himself  into  an  armchair  with  a  sigh.  "Well,  I've 
written  my  article.  I  shan't  think  any  more  about  it  all  till 
Monday.  There  are  pleasanter  things  to  think  about."  He 
smiled  to  himself. 

"Lucky  fellow!"  Infield  glanced  at  him,  while  he  con- 
tinued to  unwrap  fold  after  fold  of  brownish  tissue  paper.  "  The 
way  you  don't  think  of  unpleasant  things  is  wonderful.  I've 
got  something  pleasant  here  for  you,  if  you  like,  and  in  an  immu- 
table form.  It  won't  change,  even  though  your  feelings  about 
it  do. " 

Nigel  leaned  his  head  back  against  the  cushions  and  half 
closed  his  eyes. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  murmured,  "that's  what  one  is  always  seek- 
ing; something  on  which  the  mind  can  rest. " 

"Perhaps,"  said  Hugh,  in  a  rather  dubious  tone.  "But 
your  search  is  so  hurried  that  when  you've  found  it  you  only 
sit  for  two  minutes  and  then  rush  on. "  Nigel  opened  his  eyes 
as  if  to  protest.  Hugh  smiled,  and  continued:  "Ah,  you  sit 
'down  quickly  enough,  I  grant.  You've  a  wonderful  flair,  but 
your  speed  creates  distrust  even  in  your  own  mind,  and  off  you 
go  again,  almost  before  you've  made  sure  what  the  god  is  you've 
worshipped  for  a  day. " 

"Rich  in  the  simple  worship  of  a  day  .  .  .  that's  enough 
forme!" 

Hugh  laughed.  "Well,  if  you  want  to  worship,  here's  a 
god." 

He  had  at  last  extracted  from  its  multitudinous  exterior 
wrappings  and  held  now  between  his  hands  an  object,  enwound 
still  in  yellow  cotton  wool.  It  was  long  and  flat  in  shape,  like 
a  box  or  small  picture.  Slowly  and  tenderly,  Hugh  took  off 
the  wool  bit  by  bit,  and  threw  it  down  beside  him  among  the 
straw  with  which  the  floor  was  now  littered.  Then  he  lifted 
up  his  treasure  and  placed  it  on  the  mantelpiece. 

Nigel  rose  from  his  seat  and  stood  beside  him  to  observe  it. 
It  was  a  panel  of  stretched  silk,  about  three  feet  long  by  twelve 


104  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

inches  broad,  framed  in  a  flat  band  of  dull  grey  ash  wood.  On 
the  silk  was  represented  the  figure  of  a  young  girl,  Japanese 
apparently  by  her  dress,  standing  under  a  cherry  tree  in  full 
blossom;  her  arms  upraised  so  that  with  her  hands  she  just 
touched  the  clusters  of  white  flowers.  On  a  branch  high  above 
her  head  a  small  bird  perched.  The  sleeves  of  her  wide  blue- 
grey  kimono  fell  back,  showing  slender,  exquisitely  rounded 
arms;  and  her  face,  with  its  halo  of  black  hair,  was  lit  by  an  ex- 
pression that  made  it  strangely,  touchingly  beautiful,  for  all  its 
alien  type. 

"What  is  it?"  Nigel  asked. 

Hugh  Infield  did  not  at  once  reply.  He  had  removed  the 
miscellaneous  objects  from  the  mantelpiece  and  now  took  down 
the  big  photograph  of  the  Virgin  of  the  Rocks  so  that  the  wall 
was  bare.  Against  the  grey-brown,  which  Nigel  had  always 
disliked  and  wanted  Hugh  to  change  for  something  more  cheerful, 
the  new  picture  certainly  looked  beautiful.  Nigel  admitted 
that  the  background  could  not  have  been  better.  Hugh  stood 
back  for  a  minute  or  two,  then  he  replaced  two  delicate  blue  and 
white  Chinese  vases,  a  yellow  lacquer  cigarette  box,  and  the 
black  and  gold  lacquer  candlesticks  of  which  he  was  so  fond. 

"No  more  invitation  cards!"  he  said  to  Nigel  with  a  grin. 
"You  must  range  them  over  your  desk.  I'll  hang  Lionardo  over 
it  directly. "  With  that  he  resumed  his  stare. 

Nigel  watched  these  proceedings  with  a  smile.  Hugh  was 
not  a  connoisseur  in  the  ordinary  sense;  and  he  exercised  no 
tyranny  in  the  arrangement  of  the  room,  though  nearly  all  the 
things  in  it  were  his.  He  was  extremely  untidy  and  had  no  feel- 
ings against  pipes  and  match-boxes  everywhere.  But  he  waged 
war  against  ornaments,  and  refused  to  admit  more  than  a  very 
few  pictures  to  hang  on  the  walls  at  once.  He  often  bought 
pictures — some  of  them  remarkably  queer — but  he  also  very 
frequently  gave  away  those  he  had.  He  had  a  range  of  curious 
friends  of  his  own,  impecunious  people  who  lived  in  awkward 
places,  who  never  appeared  on  what  Nigel  called  social  occasions; 
but  who  called  their  second  babies  after  Hugh  and  sent  him 
queer  presents.  Cabbages  and  gingerbread  cakes  used  to  turn 
up  in  knobbly  parcels;  slim  volumes  of  poetry  published  at  the 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  105 

author's  expense,  and  long  novels  which  got  reviews  in  very 
small  type,  filled  Hugh's  shelves.  Hugh  liked  these  parcels 
apparently,  and  sent  off  others  not  much  less  odd,  of  his  own, 
from  time  to  time.  Nothing  about  Hugh  suggested  mystery; 
if  Nigel  knew  little  of  these  friends  of  his,  it  was  largely  that 
he  never  asked  about  them.  Hugh,  of  course,  never  volun- 
teered information  on  any  subject  whatever.  Had  Nigel  not 
found  him  unpacking  this  particular  treasure,  its  origin  might 
have  remained  forever  obscure.  Even  now  Hugh  said  nothing. 

Nigel  repeated  his  question.     "What  is  it?" 

"Oh,  it's  the  Cherry  Blossom  Festival — Japanese,  as  you 
see.  Only  ten  or  fifteen  years  old. " 

"It's  beautiful,"  said  Nigel. 

"Yes,"  said  Hugh  shortly,  "that's  civilisation." 

Nigel  stared. 

Hugh  laughed.  "Your  expression  tempts  me  to  a  longer 
sermon  than  any  Eastern  divinity  often  heard!  Do  you  realise 
that  this  is  not  a  painting?  " 

"Not  a  painting?"  Nigel  advanced  a  step  nearer.  "What 
is  it,  then?" 

"Embroidery.  Some  one  took  the  best  part  of  ten  years  in 
producing  it;  a  man  who  was  done  for  in  the  Russo-Japanese 
War.  He  had  just  finished  it  when  they  dragged  him  off.  Ten 
years,  and  did  not  grudge  the  time.  So  it's  a  little  masterpiece, 
and  a  text  from  which  I  could,  though  I  won't,  preach."  He 
paused,  then  as  Nigel  said  nothing,  but  looked  at  him  rather 
blankly,  he  went  on:  "That's  Japan  before  it  began  to  imitate 
us;  to  be  a  great  Western  Power.  And  that,  and  not  our  hypoc- 
risies, is  civilisation.  The  belief  that  beauty  is  worth  a  life- 
time's search,  and  is  only  to  be  got  by  that.  The  man  who  did 
this  took  years  to  train.  Before  he  began  on  it  he  knew  every- 
thing there  was  to  be  known  about  how  to  do  it ;  you  can't  take 
out  stitches  or  cover  up  weak  lines  in  work  like  this.  Search  it; 
you  won't  find  one.  No  hurry  can  give  us  work  like  that — 
instinct  won't  do  it  for  you.  Revelation  won't. " 

Hugh  had  spoken  in  his  usual  dry,  slow  way,  but  something 
neither  dry  nor  slow  might  have  been  felt  underneath  his  words, 
and  when  he  paused  his  cheeks  were  a  little  flushed. 


106  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

" Does  it  leave  you  cold? "  he  said,  turning  to  Nigel.  "Per- 
fect work  often  does  leave  people  cold.  It  seems  inhuman. 
And  yet  a  human  being  did  that  and  can  do  no  more  of  it,  be- 
cause in  the  war  he  lost  both  his  hands.  .  .  .  Oh,  yes.  Didn't 
I  say  Japan  was  becoming  Westernised?  .  .  .  Well,  there's  the 
sermon  I  didn't  mean  to  give. " 

Nigel  had  turned  away.  He  came  back,  and  after  gazing 
at  the  panel  again  for  a  minute  cried:  "I've  got  it!  I  couldn't 
think  what  it  reminded  me  of;  but  now  I  see.  That  girl's  arms 
and  throat  are  Daphne  Leonard's.  You  look,  this  evening — 
she's  coming,  you  know — and  see  if  it  isn't  so." 

Hugh  regarded  his  friend  with  a  mixed  expression. 

"That's  all  the  Eternal  Idea  says  to  you!" 

"But  it  is  Daphne  exactly!"  Nigel  cried  again.  "Look 
at  the  wrists. " 

"You  seem  to  have  got  on  very  rapidly  in  your  acquaintance 
with  Daphne,"  retorted  the  other.  Then  after  a  pause  he 
added:  "As  a  matter  of  fact  the  face  is  more  like  her  mother's. " 

This  last  remark  was  lost  upon  Nigel,  who  had  sat  down  and 
was  drawing  on  the  back  of  an  envelope  hieroglyphics  intended 
to  represent  the  arrangement  of  their  table  for  the  evening  meal. 
Six  guests  were  coming,  an  event  which  had  kept  their  admirable 
housekeeper  in  a  state  of  irritability  all  day;  and  Nigel  was  deep 
in  the  problem  of  how  they  were  to  sit.  It  was  primarily  his 
party.  Hugh,  indeed,  had  announced  his  intention  of  going  out, 
as  he  generally  arranged  to  do  when  Nigel  invited  what  Hugh 
called  "the  latchkey  set";  but  on  hearing  that  Daphne  was 
included  he  had  promised  to  stay.  The  party  had  originated 
in  the  alleged  necessity  of  giving  a  dinner  to  Alan  Mottershaw 
and  his  bride,  and  since  the  table  only  held  eight,  and  eight 
rather  closely  packed,  those  who  could  not  be  fitted  in  were 
coming  to  coffee. 

"Will  you  take  in  Lily  Mottershaw  or  Mabel  Nugent?" 
asked  Nigel  after  a  moment's  scratching.  "Lily  of  course  as 
the  bride  is  the  principal  guest. " 

"Why  shouldn't  you  have  them  both?  "  said  Hugh.  "You're 
the  host,  it-  seems  the  proper  arrangement.  ...  I  don't  know 
Mrs.  Mottershaw. " 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  107 

"Neither  do  I,"  cried  Nigel  quickly.  "I've  only  seen  her 
once  before  the  wedding,  and  then  she  just  giggled  at  us  all.  .  .  . 
I  think  you'd  better  have  her.  She'll  like  you,  I'm  sure. " 

"Not  half  as  much  as  she'll  like  you — no  one  ever  does," 
said  Hugh  grimly. 

"Well,  then,  you  can  have  Mabel." 

"No,"  said  Hugh  with  decision. 

Nigel  looked  up,  but  Hugh  evidently  meant  it. 

"  It  seems, "  said  Hugh,  coming  and  looking  over  his  shoulder, 
"a  perfectly  easy  table — only  one  couple " 

Nigel  executed  some  more  scratching.  "There  we  are,'* 
said  Nigel,  "look  at  that.  You  at  one  end  with  Lily  on  your 
right  and  Myrtle  on  your  left — me  opposite  with  Mabel  and 
Miss  Leonard.  Alan  Mottershaw  and  Mallard  in  the  gaps. " 

Hugh  smiled.  "As  I'm  here  simply  in  order  to  see  Daphne, 
I  think  she  might  sit  next  to  me.  I  didn't,  after  all,  stay  at 
home  for  the  sake  of  meeting  Miss  Toller." 

Nigel  did  not  say  anything.  He  merely  continued  to  draw 
whorls  and  squares  on  his  envelopes. 

Hugh's  smile  broadened. 

"Myrtle  can  be  very  amusing,"  said  Nigel  after  a  moment. 

Hugh's  smile  became  a  grin. 

"Oh,  very  well, "  he  said.     "Put  me  anywhere  you  like. " 

Mrs.  Nugent  was  the  first  to  arrive.  It  wanted,  indeed,  still 
ten  minutes  to  eight  when  she  appeared,  smart,  rustling  and 
cheerful;  the  replica,  from  her  ear-rings  to  her  shoes,  of  some 
hundreds  of  well-dressed  London  women  of  indefinable  age, 
differentiated  from  them  not  by  any  accent  of  personal  dis- 
tinction, but  only  by  the  superior  glow  of  her  self-satisfaction. 
At  eighteen,  with  her  dark  fuzzy  hair  and  bright  colouring,  she 
had  looked  a  full-blown  woman,  and  her  appearance  had  hardly 
changed  since,  save  in  so  far  as  it  had  acquired  a  high  metropoli- 
tan polish.  She  was  extremely  vivacious  with  a  rather  loud 
and  penetrating  voice  and  perpetual  laugh.  Vivacity,  she  be- 
lieved, was  the  quality  in  a  woman  which  above  all  others 
appealed  to  men;  and  her  consciousness  of  charm  carried  her 
through  many  situations  which  might  have  been  difficult  to 
any  one  less  effectually  armoured.  Opinions  differed  as  to 


108  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

whether  the  silence  of  her  husband  were  the  effect  or  the  cause 
of  her  loquacity.  Edgar  was  this  evening  detained  at  the 
House;  but  he  hoped  to  come  on  later. 

Mrs.  Nugent  at  once  took  the  occasion  under  her  wing. 
She  inquired  who  the  other  guests  were  to  be  and  assured  her 
hosts  that  they  might  leave  it  to  her  to  make  the  party  "go." 
The  list  she  received  with  approval.  They  were  all  particular 
friends  of  hers.  She  had,  she  asserted,  brought  the  Motter- 
shaws  together.  Other  people  might  find  Mallard  Floss  as- 
sertive, Wellesley  Drew  boring  and  Jimmy  O'Connor  mad,  but 
she  delighted  in  them  all.  Myrtle  Toller  was  a  charming 
creature, '  'so  simple  and  direct ! ' '  This  remark  was  accompanied 
by  a  smile  directed  at  Hugh,  which,  however,  missed  him,  for 
his  eyes  were  on  the  panel  over  the  mantelpiece,  illuminated 
now  by  the  candles  in  their  lacquer  sticks.  The  smile  indicated 
that  Mrs.  Nugent  quite  understood  all  that  had  passed  between 
this  young  lady  and  Nigel,  and  that  it  was  all  over,  and  that  she 
could  be  trusted,  there  too,  to  manage  everything  perfectly.  .  .  . 
Yes,  Myrtle  was  charming  indeed.  All  that  set  were  nice  crea- 
tures, especially  little  Jane  Sandys,  about  whose  engagement 
she  would  tell  them  more  anon.  As  for  Daphne  Leonard,  she 
was  longing  to  meet  her  and  could  not  think  how  the  girl  had 
been  in  London  so  long  without  her  finding  her  out.  She  had 
been  a  great  friend  of  her  mother's,  though  Mrs.  Leonard  was, 
of  course,  years  older  than  she  was  herself. 

"I  always  took  her  part,"  she  said. 

"Her  part?"  Nigel  asked  vaguely. 

"Oh,  my  dear  Nigel,  you,  I  daresay,  have  never  heard  of 
it,  she's  been  away  from  London  so  much.  But  there  was  a 
time  when  people  spoke  very  disagreeably  about  her. " 

"Only  very  stupid  people."  She  had  Hugh  Infield's  atten- 
tion now.  He  had  been  standing  with  his  back  to  the  other 
two  seated  on  the  sofa,  deriving  much  quiet  amusement  from 
the  fact  that  Mrs.  Nugent,  on  whom,  by  her  own  account, 
"nothing  was  lost,"  had  passed  by  the  panel  unobserved  while 
she  approached  the  "Virgin  of  the  Rocks"  and  inspected  the 
cards  stuck  into  the  convenient  aperture  between  its  glass  and 
frame. 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  109 

"Ah,  but,  Mr.  Infield,  we  are  apt  to  forget  how  many  stupid 
people  there  are  in  the  world.  One  assumes  that  one's  own 
friends  are  typical,  and  they're  not.  People  were  very  disa- 
greeable about  her  leaving  Colonel  Leonard,  although,  of  course, 
she  did  it  for  her  child's  sake.  I  never  believed  all  the  stories 
about  another  man;  though  she  was  so  attractive.  I  went 
about  contradicting  them.  Of  course,  her  being  a  pro-Boer 
did  make  it  worse,  her  being  one  so  publicly,  I  mean. " 

"But  we  were  all  pro-Boers,"  said  Nigel,  recalling  with 
amusement  his  brother's  strictures  on  the  case.  "Wasn't 
Edgar?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  think  so,  at  least;  we  were  only  engaged  at  the 
time.  But  it  was  rather  different  for  her. " 

"Was  Colonel  Leonard  killed  in  the  war?"  said  Nigel. 

Mrs.  Nugent  nodded.  "He  got  a  V.C.  or  something  like 
that,"  she  said. 

The  contemporaneous  announcement  of  Miss  Leonard  and 
Mr.  Floss,  speedily  followed  by  that  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mottershaw, 
put  a  stop  to  the  conversation.  Mrs.  Nugent  ran  Daphne  over 
with  a  rapidly  appraising  eye.  She  could  find  nothing  to  cavil 
at  in  the  simplicity  of  a  white  muslin  dress,  or  a  head  bound 
with  seed  pearls,  which  she  inspected,  without  letting  go  of 
Nigel,  to  whom  she  continued  to  talk  with  a  brightness  that  gave 
him  no  chance  of  escape.  The  conversation  only  nominally 
included  Mrs.  Mottershaw,  a  shy  little  lady  in  cream  satin 
covered  with  tinsel,  who  shared  the  sofa  with  Mabel,  and 
laughed,  generally  in  the  wrong  place.  Her  husband's  evening 
paper  was  seized  upon  by  Mallard  Floss.  Daphne  was  thus 
left  to  Hugh. 

"Well,  Daphne,"  he  said,  "if  I  may  still  call  you  so,  now 
you  are  on  your  own?  How  do  you  like  the  whirlpool,  since 
you  are  in  it?  " 

"Oh,  please!"  She  smiled  up  at  him  with  a  frankness  in 
which  Hugh  might  have  felt  his  complete  relegation  to  an  older 
generation.  "I  don't  know.  I'm  rather  frightened.  It's  all 
right  in  Poplar,  but  here  I  feel  so  unnecessarily  solemn  and 
serious.  Can  one  learn, "  she  glanced  quickly  round,  "  to  buzz?  " 

Infield  laughed. 


110  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

"It's  only  too  easy,"  he  said.  "In  a  few  weeks  you'll  be 
pattering  the  evening  papers  like  all  the  rest  of  us. " 

"But  I'm  so  slow." 

"Ah,  you  try  to  think.  That's  a  fatal  mistake.  The  rule 
is,  you  see,  to  say  the  first  thing  that  comes  into  your  head  as 
loudly  as  possible.  You'll  find  it  works  infallibly.  An  in- 
vincible ignorance  is  a  great  asset;  you  give  other  people  a 
chance  to  instruct  you,  which  they  love.  But  you  must  be 
proud  of  your  ignorance,  not  ashamed  of  it.  It's  all  a  game. " 

"But  I  don't,"  said  Daphne,  "know  the  rules." 

"The  only  rule  is  to  read  the  stop  press  edition,"  said  Hugh. 
"Model  yourself  on  Gervase  O'Connor." 

Daphne  looked  round  again. 

"  Is  he  coming?  "  she  said.     "  I  like  him. " 

Hugh  nodded. 

"That's  right;  he's  a  good  sort,  our  Jimmy.  And  you'll 
be  good  for  him,  I  expect. " 

•Daphne's  eyes  widened.  "Really?"  she  said.  "Do  tell 
me  how." 

Hugh's  explanation  was  prevented  by  the  entrance  of  Myrtle 
Toller,  brilliant  in  an  emerald  green  dress  which  effectually 
"killed"  the  turquoise  of  Mabel  Nugent's;  and  they  went  in 
to  dinner. 

The  "Original  Walker,"  who  prescribed  eight  as  the  perfect 
number  for  a  dinner  party,  omitted  to  give  the  dimensions  of 
the  table  at  which  the  eight  were  to  sit,  a  point  of  considerable 
relevance  if  the  desire  of  the  giver  is  to  secure  private  conversa- 
tion with  any  of  his  guests.  Nigel  had  planned  the  seating  of 
his  party  with  that  intention;  but  his  plans  were  defeated  by 
the  smallness  of  the  table  and  the  penetrating  voices  of  some  of 
his  friends.  Mallard  Floss  and  Mabel  Nugent  were  each  de- 
termined to  talk  to  the  table  as  a  whole,  and  from  soup  to 
dessert  the  conversation  remained  persistently  general.  Coffee 
and  the  arrival  of  other  guests  permitted  some  regrouping  to 
take  place — a  process  much  assisted  by  Hugh's  firm  measures 
with  the  lights.  Of  the  electric  bulbs  which  normally  hung 
from  the  wall  he  had  banished  one  to  the  top  of  Nigel's  desk, 
where  its  glare,  cast  downward  instead  of  generally  diffused,  no 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  111 

longer  vexed  weak  eyes;  the  other  he  placed  on  top  of  the  low 
bookcase  at  the  further  end  of  the  room.  On  a  sofa  there, 
Hugh  with  masterly  strategy  marooned  Mrs.  Nugent  and  Alan 
Mottershaw.  Mottershaw's  soft  voice  might  have  seemed  to 
rob  him  of  any  hope  of  getting  his  word  in,  but  he  had  a  slow, 
irresistible  flow  of  words,  which  hypnotised  most  listeners  within 
a  measurable  period  of  time,  and  Hugh,  from  the  distant 
window-sill  in  which  he  had  perched  himself,  watched  this 
process  gradually  taking  effect.  Absorbed,  he  had  not  noticed 
that  Myrtle  Toller  had  dropped  into  the  big  low  chair  beneath 
him,  until  her  voice  suddenly  broke  in  upon  his  thoughts. 

"That  will  put  dear  Mabel's  nose  out  of  joint,"  she  said, 
blowing  a  smoke  ring  and  watching  it  float  off.  Hugh  did  not 
at  first  understand  the  full  bearing  of  this  remark  until,  follow- 
ing the  direction  of  Myrtle's  eyes,  he  saw  that  she  was  not 
looking,  as  he  had  supposed,  at  the  inspired  countenance  of 
Mr.  Mottershaw.  Her  gaze  was  bent  to  where,  by  the  mantel- 
piece, Nigel  Strode  and  Daphne  Leonard  were  standing  side 
by  side. 

Nigel  had  his  back  to  them.  Hugh  could  see  nothing  but 
his  fair  head,  on  which  the  candlelight  fell.  He  was  leaning 
forward  and  speaking  quickly,  no  doubt  explaining  the  beauties 
of  the  embroidered  panel;  and  explaining  them  very  well,  to 
judge  from  the  absorbed  attention  of  Daphne's  uplifted  face. 
Her  eyes  were  on  the  picture,  but  as  Hugh  looked  at  her  he  saw 
their  direction  change  to  rest  for  an  instant  on  his  friend's  face. 
He  looked,  at  that,  quickly  away,  back  to  Myrtle. 

She  smiled. 

"Pretty  clear  what's  happening  there,  isn't  it?"  she  said,  as 
she  shook  the  ash  from  her  cigarette  on  to  the  carpet.  "Your 
carpet  doesn't  mind,  does  it?  Or  is  it  Nigel's  carpet?  It's 
very  perplexing  when  people  live  together.  Especially  when 
one  of  them  does  all  the  talking;  one  assumes  he  has  all  the 
taste.  Nigel  certainly  gives  one  the  impression  of  having 
quantities  of  the  most  exquisite  taste;  he's  always  discriminating 
and  choosing,  isn't  he?  I  suppose  that's  why  people  are  excited 
when  they  think  he's  chosen  them. " 

Myrtle   spoke   slowly,   with   many   pauses.     Hugh's   eyes 


112  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

had  reverted  to  the  group  by  the  mantelpiece,  but  he  had  heard 
all  she  said. 

"Is  that  what  you  think  is  happening?"  he  asked. 

Myrtle  laughed. 

"  That  she  thinks  he's  chosen?  No.  Not  exactly.  I  should 
think  so  if  Nigel  looked  at  me  in  that  way,  but  Daphne,  dear 
soul,  isn't  like  that,  she's  far  too  modest.  Besides,  she's  not 
complicated  a  bit. " 

"You  mean  she  knows  she's  chosen?"  said  Hugh. 

Myrtle  nodded. 

"And  that's  enough  for  her?"  he  went  on. 

"Exactly,  and  quite  right  too.  That's  how  one  should  do 
it.  ...  But  really,  Mr.  Infield,  you're  not  a  bit  what  I 
thought. " 

Hugh  laughed. 

"I  did  not  realise,"  he  said,  "that  you  had  ever  turned  the 
subject  over." 

Myrtle  Toller  smiled  up  at  him  frankly. 

"Oh,  dear!  As  if  one  didn't  turn  every  one  over.  I  never 
meet  any  one  without  wondering  whether  they  could  thrill  me. " 

Hugh  shook  his  head  with  a  smile.  "I'm  afraid  I'm  no  good 
for  that. " 

"There  you're  quite  wrong. "  Myrtle  sat  up.  "The  most 
unlikely  people  can.  .  .  .  But  with  you,  honestly,  I  don't  think 
I  had  any  impression  at  all,  except  that  you  didn't  like  any  of 
us,  despised  us  all.  That,  of  course,  is  interesting,  as  far  as  it 
goes.  But  then  your  living  with  Nigel  was  puzzling,  because 
he's  so  much  one  of  us. " 

Hugh  Infield  looked  down  at  her  dark  head. 

"I  do  despise  you  all  in  a  sense,"  he  said;  "it's  quite  true. 
But  I  include  myself." 

"Ah!"  said  Myrtle  quickly.  "That's  where  we  differ  from^ 
you,  then. " 

"You  don't  despise  yourself?" 

"Oh  no,  of  course  not.     How  stupid.     I  am  profoundly 
interested  in  myself.     It's  all  there  is  ...  so,  of  course — 
She  waved  a  hand. 

"And  Nigel?"  said  Hugh.     Evidently  one  need  feel  no  sen- 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  113 

sitive  reticences.  Myrtle  would  be  only  too  delighted  to  realise 
a  nerve  being  touched.  Her  light  laugh  suggested  that  the  touch 
did  not,  in  this  case,  operate. 

"Nigel  is  odd.  He's  one  of  us,  as  I  said,  but  in  some  ways 
he's  different.  He's  never  made  up  his  mind,  you  see,  what  sort 
of  person  he  is;  so  of  course  he's  tremendously  interested  in  any 
one  new,  who  may  throw  some  light. " 

Hugh's  eyes  were  again  on  the  group. 

"And  Daphne?"  he  said. 

Myrtle  Toller  hesitated,  and  her  hesitation  raised  her  in 
Hugh's  esteem.  The  rudiments  of  difference  were,  after  all, 
not  lost  upon  her. 

"I  don't  understand  Daphne,"  she  said.  "She  only  came 
up  to  Newnham  when  I  was  in  my  second  year,  and  we  weren't 
in  the  same  set.  She  worked,  of  course,  and  was  very  good  at 
games  too.  There's  something  profound  and  queer  in  her. 
She'd  die  for  her  ideas  (it's  rather  a  blow  to  her  that  no  one, 
nowadays,  wants  you  to  do  anything  of  the  kind!)  And  she's 
full  of  ideas.  About  things  in  general.  Not  about  people. 
.  .  .  Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Mr.  Delahaye?  So  you've  conde- 
scended to  recognise  me!  I  thought  Jane  had  blotted  us  all 
out." 

Hugh  leaned  back  within  earshot  of  the  light  banter  passing 
between  Miss  Toller  and  the  newcomer,  a  good-looking  youth 
known  to  him  only  by  name  as  engaged  to  little  Jane  Sandys; 
but  he  was  not  listening  to  them.  He  glanced  round  the  room, 
which  was  now  tolerably  full.  Mrs.  Nugent  had  escaped  from 
Alan  Mottershaw,  who  had  transferred  his  deep  intensity  to 
Chris  Bampton.  Little  Jane  Sandys,  who  was  always  nice 
to  every  one,  was  being  nice  to  Mrs.  Mottershaw,  after  rescuing 
her  from  Mallard  Floss.  Mallard  had  buttonholed  Edgar 
Nugent  at  the  very  threshold  of  the  room.  Over  them,  as  over 
Gertrude  Fenner,  Ned  Coventry,  the  handful  of  strange-looking 
art  students  and  the  other  people  whose  names  he  did  not  know, 
Hugh's  gaze  travelled  rapidly.  It  rested  for  a  moment,  how- 
ever, on  Mrs.  Nugent  and  Jimmy  O'Connor.  Mrs.  Nugent 's 
voice  reached  him,  but  he  did  not  attend  to  what  it  said,  any 
more,  apparently,  than  did  her  interlocutor.  The  eyes  of 


114  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

Jimmy  were  fixed,  furtively,  on  Daphne  Leonard.  All  he  gave 
Mrs.  Nugent  was  a  bright  abstracted  smile;  his  intention  of 
escape  at  the  first  possible  moment  was  obvious  to  Hugh. 

Daphne  had  not  moved.  She  still  stood  by  the  fire,  uncon- 
scious apparently  of  its  heat,  her  hands  clasped,  her  eyes  travel- 
ling from  Nigel's  face  to  the  panel  and  back  again.  What 
Jimmy  or  Nigel  saw  in  those  eyes  Hugh  could  only  guess;  they 
were  turned  away  from  him.  He  wondered  whether  Myrtle 
Toller's  arrow  had  hit  the  mark  and  marvelled  at  the  quickness 
of  her  insight.  He  could  see  what  she  had  shown  him,  but  he 
wondered  whether  he  should  ever  have  seen  by  his  own  unaided 
light. 

Probably  not.  In  Hugh  Infield,  as  in  many  men  of  middle 
age  who  live  solitary  lives,  great  intellectual  courage  was  com- 
bined with  extreme  personal  shyness.  This  shyness,  partly  self- 
distrust,  partly  moral  delicacy,  prevented  his  asking  questions 
about  people,  even  of  himself.  He  tended  to  accept  them  as 
they  came.  Acceptance  did  not  necessarily  mean  liking;  Hugh 
was  no  indiscriminate  liker;  but  it  did  mean  an  absence  of  that 
incessant  desire  to  probe  and  test  which,  as  Myrtle  had  admitted, 
characterised  the  set  in  which  she  moved.  There  were  some 
things  which  Hugh  did  not  want  probed  or  tested;  things  in 
himself  and,  it  followed,  in  other  people.  Tearing  up  by  the 
roots  was  a  process  he  detested.  And  here  lay  part  of  the  ex- 
planation of  his  living  with  Nigel.  Their  association  was,  on 
Hugh's  side  at  any  rate,  far  from  close.  If  Nigel  felt  he  could 
talk  to  Hugh  about  anything,  that  was  partly  because  there  were 
so  few  things  about  which  Hugh  ever  wanted  to  talk  to  him. 
Hugh  listened  with  admirable  good  temper,  and  commented 
with  caustic  humour;  but  he  never  initiated  inquiries.  Hugh 
liked  Nigel  largely  because  of  this.  Men  can  live  together 
without  asking  one  another  questions,  without  demanding 
intimacy.  The  last  thing  Hugh  wanted  of  a  companion  at 
breakfast  and  supper  was  that  he  should  share  his  thoughts. 
To  one  scarred  and  shaken,  as  Hugh  visibly  was  to  eyes  that 
cared  to  see,  there  was  something  soothing  in  association  with 
a  being  whose  feet  skimmed  lightly  over  the  burning  plough- 
shares of  life,  whose  eyes  glanced  away  from  its  boiling  abysses. 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  115 

But  now  as  he  tried  to  look  at  Nigel  with  the  eyes  of  an  ardent 
young  girl,  Hugh  wondered  what  he  was  really  like;  and  felt 
he  could  not  say.  He  was  easy;  he  was  agreeable;  he  had  a 
charm  which  every  one  felt;  he  was  everything  that  Hugh  was 
not  himself;  but  these  things,  valuable  enough  in  themselves, 
were  somehow  too  negative.  Daphne's  eyes  saw  something  else. 

Hugh  dropped  from  his  window-seat  and  joined  the  pair 
by  the  fireplace. 

"She's  beautiful,  but  she's  remote,"  Daphne  was  saying. 
"Look  at  her  lovely  eyes.  They've  never  seen  anything  but 
clear  skies  and  happy  birds  and  cherry  blossom. " 

"And  you  want  her  to  see  other  things?"  said  Hugh. 

Daphne  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  gravely. 

"There  are  other  things,  aren't  there?"  she  said. 

Hugh's  eyes  rested  on  her  for  a  moment  with  a  gentleness 
that  made  him  first  hesitate,  then  strike. 

"Yes,"  he  said.     "But  they're  mostly  terrible." 

Daphne  frowned,  and  looked  at  Nigel,  as  if  she  wanted  him 
to  say  something.  He  only  smiled,  however,  and  after  a 
moment  she  said — 

"Oh,  no!"  with  sudden  emphasis.  "Some  of  them,  yes,  but 
even  those  are  our  chance  to  overcome.  One's  not  alive,  is 
one,  if  one  pretends  that  even  the  most  terrible  are  not  there? 
If  we  know  they're  there  we  may  destroy  them. " 

She  glanced  quickly,  first  at  Hugh  and  then  at  Nigel. 
Hugh,  watching  her,  felt  that  Myrtle  had  been  right  when  she 
said  that  Daphne  would  die  for  her  ideas.  But  something  in 
her  glance  at  Nigel  made  him  go  on. 

"The  most  real  things  are  the  coldness  and  timidity  of  our 
hearts,  the  cowardice  and  weakness  of  our  minds.  Life  is  an 
incessant  striving  for  things  we  don't  really  want;  the  goods  we 
could  have,  we  refuse. " 

"That,"  said  Nigel,  "is  to  say  we  can't  live  and  be  happy, 
which  is  manifestly  absurd.  Go  away,  Hugh;  your  pessimism 
is  not  to  infect  Miss  Leonard!" 

Daphne  smiled  on  him. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Strode.  I  am  sure  that  if  enough  people 
would  really  look  at  life  as  it  is,  they  could  make  it  good  for 


116  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

the  others.  But  as  long  as  they  pretend,  they  can't  have  it  good, 
even  for  themselves;  and  it  can  be  good  whatever  Hugh  says." 

As  she  looked  at  him,  her  head  a  little  thrown  back,  her  eyes 
bright,  Hugh  was  not  disposed  to  dispute  her  right  to  think  so. 
Still  less,  apparently,  was  Jimmy  O'Connor,  who  had  at  last  got 
free  and  stood  by  her.  If  he  said  nothing,  his  silence,  enforced 
by  the  expression  in  his  eyes,  was  eloquent  enough,  had  Daphne's 
attention  been  given  to  him.  But  it  was  not. 

"Of  course  it  can  be  good,"  cried  Nigel.  "Ultimately  it  is 
good." 

Something  in  his  tone  acted  as  an  irritant  on  Hugh. 

"That's  right,"  he  murmured.  "Smear  your  bandage  with 
phosphorescence,  tie  it  tight  enough  over  your  eyes,  and  you 
can  believe,  all  your  days,  that  you  are  staring  at  the  sun. 
Isn't  that  so,  Mottershaw?  There's  nothing  either  good  or  bad, 
but  thinking  makes  it  so?" 

Mottershaw,  who  had  gravitated  towards  them,  stroked  his 
full  reddish  beard  with  a  shapely  white  hand.  He  was  really 
under  thirty,  but  his  beard  and  something  soft  and  solemn  in 
his  manner  made  him  appear  much  older. 

"Our  thoughts  can  be  true,"  he  answered,  "if  we  will  only 
sit  quiet  and  allow  the  message  of  the  universe  to  penetrate. 
But  it's  not  done  by  thinking;  if  you  try  to  ratiocinate,  you 
lose  the  spirit  and  only  get  a  dead  formula.  The  way  to  get  in 
touch  with  truth  is  perfect  receptivity. " 

With  Mottershaw  in  control,  the  conversation  soon  lost 
such  interest  as  it  had  ever  had.  Jimmy  carried  off  Miss 
Leonard  to  have  lemonade  at  the  further  table.  Nigel  turned 
to  attend  to  neglected  duties,  in  the  persons  of  Mrs.  Motter- 
shaw and  Miss  Sandys. 

Hugh  Infield,  standing  for  a  moment  apart,  surveyed  the 
scene  and  listened  to  the  extraordinary  buzz,  marvelling  as  he 
did  so  at  the  social  passion.  Every  one  in  parting  would  declare 
that  they  had  had  a  "perfectly  delightful"  evening.  He  won- 
dered how  far  it  would  be  true.  His  own  chief  delight  would  be 
in  its  termination,  for  which  he  began  to  long.  He  saw  Daphne 
Leonard  rise  from  her  seat  and  approach  Nigel  with  the  obvious 
intention  of  taking  farewell  with  a  satisfaction  that  for  some  rea- 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  117 

son  was  heightened  by  the  fact  that  Jimmy  O'Connor  accom- 
panied her;  and  although  his  hope  that  their  departure  would 
break  up  the  party  failed  of  immediate  realisation,  his  satisfac- 
tion continued,  and  continued  to  puzzle  him.  Vaguely  pre- 
occupied with  it,  he  hardly  observed  the  going  of  the  other 
guests,  but  he  did  observe  with  some  surprise  that  Nigel,  instead 
of  sitting  down  "to  talk  over  the  party,"  went  straight  to  his 
own  room  with  the  briefest  of  good-nights. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

THAT  accident,  even  in  the  form  of  the  accidental  kind- 
ness of  friends,  would  throw  him  and  Daphne  Leonard 
together,  Nigel  Strode  knew  his  London  too  well  to  hope. 
Accident  had  done  more  than  could  have  been  expected  of 
it  in  the  Park.  Accident  as  a  rule  did  nothing  for  one,  but 
design  could  be  made  to  do  everything,  even  to  look  like 
accident,  or,  thanks  to  the  thick  muddle  of  the  place,  not  to 
care  whether  it  looked  like  anything  at  all.  His  ingenious 
and  cheerful  mind  found  delightful  entertainment  in  plan- 
ning opportunities;  an  entertainment  only  heightened  by  the 
risk  of  encountering  the  observation  of  his  friends.  In  London 
there  is  no  one  one  may  not  hope  to  meet,  or  to  avoid.  At 
least  one  can  never  be  safe;  and  for  the  risks  involved  in  mild 
and  innocent  intrigue  Nigel  had  a  zest  which  no  practice  had 
worn  dull. 

The  fact  that  it  was  there,  this  zest,  as  keen  as  ever,  de- 
lighted him.  It  had  been  given  back  just  at  the  moment  when 
he  had  felt  himself  in  danger  of  losing  it;  at  the  moment,  too, 
when  he  saw  it  as  the  sole  fruit  on  the  tree  of  life  worth  grasping 
and  within  his  grasp.  There  were  other  things  that  other  men 
strove  after  and  thought  desirable,  but  they  were  not  for  him 
and  he  did  not  even  want  them.  He  might  despise  Hugh 
Tnfield  for  what  he  saw  as  his  lack  of  gift  for  life:  in  other  words, 
for  his  deep  want  of  cheerfulness:  but  after  living  with  Infield 
for  more  than  a  year  Nigel  had  no  longer  any  doubt  as  to  the 
second-rate  quality  of  his  own  intellect.  There  were  too 
many  things  that  Infield  apprehended  clearly,  saw  as  defined, 
consistent  threads,  which  he  himself  had  never  seen,  he  knew, 

118 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  119 

save  as  part  of  the  muddled  texture  of  things  in  general,  whose 
warp  and  woof  life  was  too  short  to  unravel.  Infield  first,  then 
Mallard  Floss,  then  Mrs.  Leonard,  and  last,  and  not  least 
clearly,  his  editorship  of  the  New  World  and  its  failure  to  absorb 
him  or  stir  the  age,  had  made  him  feel  that,  as  far  as  sheer 
brains  went,  he  was  never  going  to  do  anything  much.  His 
brain  was  good  enough  to  pass,  but  not  good  enough  for  a  place. 
At  thirty-eight  one  could  accept  such  a  conclusion;  for  at 
thirty-eight,  if  one  were  lucky,  as  he  was,  one  could  also  see 
how  little  it  mattered.  There  were  so  many  things  that 
counted  before  sheer  brain.  To  think  so  often  meant  one  could 
not  feel,  and  to  feel  was  the  important  thing.  To  feel  the 
general  drift;  that  was  often  impossible  to  the  people  who 
could  analyse  one  particular  tendency,  just  as  it  seemed  im- 
possible to  them  to  see  the  general  drift  as  good.  A  contempt 
for  reason  was  part  of  the  fundamental  creed  of  the  younger 
generation,  and  to  that  generation  Nigel  essentially  belonged. 
They  claimed  to  know  things  more  immediately.  Hence  they 
went  about  incessantly  in  search  of  the  personal  experience, 
above  all  of  the  personal  thrill,  that  could  alone  give  them  such 
knowledge.  It  was,  they  held,  for  ever  concealed  from  the 
thinker  who  sat  at  home,  head  in  hands. 

On  personal  experience  Nigel  took  his  stand.  And  since 
his  day  at  Box  Hill  with  Daphne  Leonard  it  had  been  a  happy, 
confident  stand.  She  thrilled  nerves  whose  capacity  for 
response  he  had  begun  to  distrust.  In  her  he  felt,  more  and 
more  at  each  meeting,  a  vitality,  vivid  and  ardent,  fed  by  an 
immense  fund  of  interest  in  things  and  perception  of  them; 
and  beneath  her  silence,  her  inexperience,  her  youth,  a  reserve 
of  passion.  She  gave  him  back,  with  a  fulness  never  experienced 
before,  his  sense  that  he  possessed  the  gift  for  life.  For  he 
could  see  how  she  felt  him.  She  thrilled  him;  and  he  gave  her 
back  the  thrill. 

Their  ride  to  Box  Hill  was  only  the  first  of  many  expeditions. 
Nigel  loved  to  see  her  in  the  country,  for  he  had  never  met  any 
one  who  so  reminded  him  of  something  growing  out-of-doors. 
Youth,  in  Myrtle  Toller  insolent  in  its  assertion,  in  Evangeline 
grotesque  in  its  assumption  of  age,  in  Jane  Sandys  merely 


120  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

sweet,  was  in  Daphne  beautiful,  without  either  crudeness  or 
immaturity.  It  suggested  not  the  ends  not  yet  achieved,  but 
all  that  was  lovely  in  the  process  of  achieving  them.  It  was 
beautiful  with  the  grace  proper  to  Nature's  work,  in  which 
each  stage  has  its  own  perfection,  absolute,  not  relative  to 
something  else  to  follow  it.  In  this  she  reminded  him  of  her 
mother.  One  could  not  regret  that  Mrs.  Leonard  was  not 
young,  or  think  of  her  other  than  she  was.  So  with  Daphne. 
To  wonder  what  she  would  be  like  at  thirty  was  an  act  of 
ingratitude  to  the  delicious  thing  she  was  now. 

The  country  was  the  best;  for  in  the  country  they  could 
be  really  alone  together.  But  Daphne  down  at  Poplar  was 
absurdly  conscientious.  Three  out  of  every  four  of  his  sugges- 
tions were  met  by  her  with  a  refusal  in  which  he  was  sure  there 
was  no  prudishness,  no  coquetry;  nothing  but  a  straightforward 
occupation  of  her  time  in  something  disagreeable  which  she, 
therefore,  felt  she  ought  to  do.  The  most  he  could  secure  dur- 
ing the  week  was  an  evening  at  a  concert  or  at  a  theatre. 

Nigel  was  not  very  fond  of  the  theatre.  There  was  too  little 
opportunity  for  talk  and  one's  subjects  were  apt  to  be  chosen 
for  one.  Least  of  all  did  he  care  for  the  modern  theatre,  which 
made  him  feel  uncomfortable.  Nan,  the  play  ^Daphne  chose, 
was  worse;  it  made  him  actually  unhappy.  It  brought  up  all 
the  doubt  of  life  that  had  assailed  him  last  autumn  and  winter; 
that  Daphne  had  driven  away.  Through  all  its  beauty  and 
its  violence  there  rang  the  note  of  death.  He  expressed  some- 
thing of  this  to  Daphne  as  they  walked  away  together  along 
Sloane  Street,  quiet  and  deserted,  its  pavements  shining  under 
the  cool  starry  sky. 

"Sometimes,  you  know,"  he  said,  "one  feels  that  death  is 
the  only  ultimately  beautiful,  the  only  right  and  saving  thing." 

Daphne  shook  her  head. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said,  "death  is  terrible." 

"But,"  Nigel  urged,  "Nan's  death  is  surely  beautiful." 

Daphne  was  not  shaken. 

"Beautiful?  Oh,  no,"  she  said  again.  "Think  what  drove 
her  to  it,  the  agony  that  Dick  caused  her;  the  hideous  things 
he  made  her  see.  He  made  her  hate  life  so  that  there  was 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  121 

nothing  left  but  death;  but  her  death  is  awful.  The  pity 
Masefield  makes  one  feel  is  beautiful,  and  the  terror,  beautiful 
by  his  art;  but  death  is  defeat.  Nan  was  defeated." 

"Wouldn't  you  have  killed  yourself?"  he  asked.  "I'm 
sure  you  would.  You  have  courage." 

Daphne  looked  at  it. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  slowly.  "Courage — courage 
would  be  to  go  on.  I  don't  know  if  I  could  go  on.  .  .  .  But 
if  one  did,  don't  you  see,  one  would  master  one's  experience. 
I'm  sure  that's  what  real  strength  means.  ...  Of  course  it  may 
only  be  that  I  have  had  no  experience.  .  .  .  But  look  at  Mother. 
You  don't  know,  of  course,  I  don't  know  what  she  suffered,  not 
fully.  But  I  have  a  dim  idea  of  it.  And  look  how  splendid 
she  is.  You  must  have  felt  her!  She's  strength,  she's  courage, 
she's  what  I  mean." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Nigel;  and  changed  the  subject. 

After  their  first  concert  Nigel  decided  that  of  silent  forms 
of  social  intercourse  this  was  the  one  he  preferred  with  her. 
To  sit  by  Daphne  listening  to  music  was,  for  Nigel,  to  hear 
music  as  he  had  never  heard  it  before.  He  did  not  know 
whether  she  were  aware  of  him  or  no,  he  thought  she  was,  but 
he  was  more  aware  of  her  than  of  what  he  was  hearing.  Yet 
he  did  hear,  and  this  double  consciousness  suggested  to  him  the 
possibility  of  depths  in  his  own  nature  never  sounded  before. 
As  the  great  tide  of  sound  surged  through  him,  and  he  looked 
at  Daphne  absorbed  in  response  to  it,  he  was  whirled  away 
from  his  moorings  and  swept  out  into  a  great  heaving  sea,  in 
which  he  believed  he  might  learn  to  swim. 

Among  the  many  evenings  in  which  they  sat  side  by  side 
together  in  the  high  balcony  at  Queen's  Hall,  filled  with  a 
beauty  of  sound  that  blotted  out  the  ugliness  of  the  place, 
there  was  one  that  made  Nigel  realise  where  he  stood  with  a 
curious  sudden  distinctness.  It  was  a  crowded  evening;  every 
seat  in  the  huge  building  was  filled,  even  the  stalls,  so  often  half 
empty  when  the  galleries  were  packed;  for  Nikisch  was  con- 
ducting, and  conducting  Beethoven's  8th  Symphony.  But 
of  the  8th  Symphony  Nigel  heard  almost  nothing.  It  was 
only  a  background  for  what  he  saw,  what  he  felt.  What  he 


122  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

saw  was  Daphne,  sitting  beside  him  in  a  dark  silk  shirt,  whose 
white  collars  and  cuffs  gave  her  the  appearance  of  a  young 
acolyte,  with  her  neat  smooth  brown  hair  and  grave  face. 
Against  the  black  coat  of  the  young  man  in  the  seat  beyond 
her,  leaning  forward,  her  face  showed  white  and  almost  stern 
in  its  concentration.  Her  profile  was  rigid  but  for  her  quiver- 
ing and  dilated  nostrils;  her  eyes  saw  nothing  that  was  before 
them;  her  mouth  was  tense.  She  was  utterly  unconscious  of 
him,  but  there  was  something  almost  terrifying  in  her  con- 
sciousness of  the  music. 

Looking  at  her,  Nigel  suddenly  understood,  suddenly 
knew  that  he  was  no  longer  young.  He  could  not  have  ex- 
plained the  steps  by  which  it  was  driven  home  to  him;  but 
there  it  was.  Daphne  was  young;  he  was  young  no  longer. 
It  stood  before  him,  with  the  force  of  certainty  and  a  new 
meaning.  For  an  instant  he  was  smitten,  struck  down  by  the 
sheer  pain  of  the  realisation.  Only  for  an  instant ;  the  darkness 
lifted;  light  entered  and  penetrated  it.  Daphne  could  give 
him  back  his  youth.  Through  her  he  could  say  to  the  moment, 
''Stay,  thou  art  fair";  she  could  stay  it,  hold  it  for  him.  She 
could.  She  must. 

He  knew  his  power  over  her.  But  she  was  young,  his  hold 
was  insecure.  Youth  might  call  her,  youth  in  Gervase.  Nigel 
knew  what  Gervase  felt — had  not  Gervase  shown  him  the 
way?  So  far  Gervase  had  been  baffled;  Nigel  had  beaten 
him  in  the  happy  game  of  devising  opportunities,  more  intimate 
than  he  had  the  courage  to  suggest  or  the  experience  to  con- 
ceive. But  his  fiery  eagerness  might  even  yet  suddenly  leap 
ahead. 

And  there  was  her  mother.  Mrs.  Leonard,  Daphne  had 
told  him,  was  to  be  in  town  in  June;  she  had  arranged  to  resume 
possession  of  the  flat  then,  and  her  daughter  was  to  leave 
Poplar  and  join  her.  Daphne  adored  her  mother.  It  was  no 
phrase;  Nigel  realised  that.  The  tie  between  these  two  was 
not  the  mere  filial  bond  that  separated  many  daughters  from 
their  parents.  It  was  something  wholly  different,  unlike  any- 
thing he  had  known,  something  he  did  not  understand  and  whose 
influence  he  therefore  could  not  calculate,  but  only  dreaded. 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  123 

How  Aurelia  Leonard  saw  him  was  a  question  Nigel  did  not 
like  to  ask  himself;  but  Daphne's  seeing  must  be  established 
on  an  unshakable  basis  before  her  mother  came  to  make  her 
see  with  other  eyes. 

The  first  movement  of  the  Symphony  was  over.  Nigel 
had  heard  only  a  confused  and  lovely  noise.  The  second 
began.  Daphne's  hand  rested  on  her  knee;  the  firm,  round 
fingers  quivered;  he  almost  saw  the  shuddering  delight  that 
ran  through  her  tremble  in  them  as  the  glorious  rejoicing 
melody  poured  out.  Her  face  was  as  stern  as  before,  stern  as 
that  of  a  young  priestess,  unapproachable,  adorable.  Nigel 
laid  his  left  hand  over  her  right.  She  did  not  move.  Her  ex- 
pression did  not  alter.  Her  hand,  warm  and  living  under  his, 
trembled  and  lay  still.  Nigel  pressed  it  softly.  Her  fingers 
made  no  response,  but  he  could  feel  the  electric  current  in 
them.  It  passed  on  to  him. 

Yes.  Assuredly  she  could  give  it  to  him,  that  tingling 
sense  of  life  moving  in  the  veins.  She  could,  and  Nigel  believed 
she  would. 

And  fortune  smiled  on  him.  Next  morning  he  found  on 
his  plate  at  breakfast  a  note  from  Mabel  Nugent,  reminding 
him  that  he  had  promised  to  come  down  to  Tenacre  for  a  week- 
end soon;  when  was  he  coming?  Hugh  was  sitting  behind  the 
newspaper,  for  Nigel,  in  the  exhilaration  of  the  chase,  got  up 
earlier  than  had  been  his  habit,  and  after  a  cold  bath  (agreeable 
now  that  May  had  come,  all  sun  and  sweetness)  breakfasted 
with  Hugh  at  eight  o'clock. 

To  Hugh  he  said  after  reading  Mabel's  letter,  "I  say, 
old  man,  come  down  to  Tenacre  with  me  for  the  week-end. 
Mabel  says  'bring  a  party,'  and  I  want  to  bring  Miss  Leonard." 

Hugh  laid  down  the  Daily  Mail  (which  he  took  for  pur- 
poses of  exasperation),  and  looked  at  his  friend  through  his 
large  round  spectacles.  Hugh  was  not  looking  younger,  Nigel 
thought.  The  white  in  his  dark  hair  was  gaining  ground. 

"Is  that  quite  playing  the  game?"  he  said.  Nigel  frowned. 
Hugh  could  be  very  tiresome.  The  dry  light  of  his  bare  per- 
ceptions made  things  look  ugly  that  were  not  if  one  did  not 
insist  upon  considering  them  so  deeply. 


124  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

"Why  not?"  he  said.  "It's  a  lovely  place.  She'd  cer- 
tainly enjoy  it." 

Hugh  shrugged  his  shoulders  impatiently.  He  was  quite 
ready  to  accept  the  fact  that  there  were  numerous  things  that 
Nigel  did  not  see,  but  that  he  should  pretend  a  density  when 
he  had  it  not  was  merely  irritating. 

"Would  she?"  he  asked  drily.  "I  know  quite  well  why 
you  want  her.  And  what  I  know  Mrs.  Nugent  will  certainly 
guess.  You  know  what  her  guesses  are.  You've  experienced 
them  before  this.  She  has  no  use  for  half  shades.  She'll  jump 
to  a  conclusion,  and  having  landed  on  it,  will  certainly  not  keep 
it  to  herself.  Every  gesture,  every  word  will  indicate  to  all 
the  world  that  she  knows  everything.  Whether  she's  right  or 
wrong,  that  can  hardly  be  agreeable  to  Daphne,  even  if  you 
happen  not  to  mind  it." 

Nigel  listened  and  found  himself  unwillingly  in  agreement. 
Hugh's  words  explained  the  reluctance  he  had  felt  to  telling 
Mabel  anything  about  Daphne.  He  had  told  her  all  about 
Myrtle  Toller;  more,  indeed,  than  there  was,  strictly  speaking, 
to  tell;  for  he  had,  half  unconsciously,  allowed  her  to  under- 
stand more  action  on  his  part  than  there  had  been,  both  in 
the  beginning  and  the  close  of  that  featureless  affair.  But 
Daphne  somehow  was  different.  There  was  a  bloom  about 
her,  for  all  her  independence,  her  opinions,  and  her  power  to 
stand  alone,  that  was  a  part  of  her  that  he  cherished  as  a  dis- 
covery of  his  own.  If  Hugh  were  right,  he  might  not  only  offend 
his  idea  of  her  but  her  idea  of  him.  For  she  saw  him,  he  knew, 
as  composed  of  delicacy  and  subtlety;  she  credited  him  with 
wonderful  complex  apprehensions,  closed  to  her  simpler  mind; 
with  a  conscious  achievement  of  all  the  fine  shades  that  in  her 
were  unconscious,  ignorant. 

"Daphne  isn't  like  all  these  other  girls,  you  know,"  Hugh 
went  on,  "she's  extraordinarily  shy  and  sensitive  really.  Have 
you  ever  talked  to  her  about  Mrs.  Drew?" 

"No."     Nigel  did  not  see  the  connection. 

"Well,  the  other  day  I  happened  to  hear  Miss  Bampton 
describing  the  whole  situation  to  her,  a  very  neat,  hard,  lucid 
description.  Daphne  was  quite  shocked.  It  hurt  her,  morally; 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  125 

not  the  facts,  for  of  course,  she  could  understand  the  facts  in 
a  way  none  of  these  jabberers  could;  but  the  way  they  talked 
of  it.  ...  She's  got  a  bump  of  reverence,  you  see — she  naturally 
would  have  with  that  mother — which  none  of  these  girls  know 
the  meaning  of.  Some  things  are  still  sacred  to  her — 

"Oh,  yes,"  cried  Nigel  eagerly,  "of  course  I  see  all  that." 

Hugh  smiled. 

There  was  a  short  silence. 

"Do  you  happen  to  know  when  Mrs.  Leonard  is  coming 
back  to  town?"  Hugh  asked. 

Nigel  looked  up.  "At  the  end  of  the  week  after  next, 
I  believe." 

Hugh  said  nothing.  Nigel  continued  to  ponder.  He 
must  risk  it;  there  was  only  this  week-end.  After  all,  if  Daphne 
said  yes,  it  would  not  matter,  and  if  she  said  no — well,  in  that 
not-to-be-believed  contingency  it  would  not  matter  either. 

"Don't  you  see,  Hugh" — he  made  another  effort, — "if 
you  came  too,  if  I  could  say  to  Mabel  Nugent  that  I  wanted 
you  and  Daphne  Leonard,  it  would  be  all  right." 

Hugh  smiled. 

"You  could  make  it  look  so,  I  daresay,"  he  said.  "But 
I'm  afraid  I  can't.  You  know  why.  I  don't  like  the  Nugents. 
I  have  refused  invitations  to  Tenacre  before." 

Nigel  got  up  and  walked  about  the  room. 

"I  can't  think,"  he  said,  after  a  couple  of  turns  up  and 
down,  "why  you  must  analyse  so  deeply.  Nobody  can  stand 
it.  The  Nugents  are  thoroughly  jolly  people.  Of  course,  they 
have  their  faults,  but  so  has  everybody  else.  They  don't 
expect  you  to  consider  them  faultless  because  they  ask  you  for 
a  week-end  and  you  go.  They  enjoy  being  hospitable,  and 
Tenacre,  delightful  at  any  time,  is  a  dream  in  May." 

Hugh  laughed.  "That's  what  Jimmy  says,  only  he  begins, 
'Edgar  Nugent  is  a  solemn  ass  and  Mabel's  a  snob,  but 
Tenacre —  They've  something  to  give  you,  so  you  go.  If 
they  hadn't,  you  wouldn't,  even  if  they  were  just  the  same  in 
themselves.  I  don't  like  them,  so  I  won't  go.  .  .  ."  He  paused, 
then,  as  Nigel  still  looked  at  him  with  questioning  eyes,  went 
on  in  a  more  serious  tone:  "If  you  want  me  to  be  quite  frank, 


128  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

I  think  that  Mabel  Nugent  is  an  inquisitive,  vulgar-minded 
woman,  with  a  hide  like  a  rhinoceros  and  no  more  perception. 
She  sees  nothing  and  tramples  over  everything.  ...  I  don't 
know  how  you  can  stand  her." 

"I  like  her,"  said  Nigel  shortly. 

"I  know  you  do.  She  likes  you.  I  suppose  that's  the 
reason.  It  would  make  me  very  uncomfortable  if  I  thought 
she  liked  me." 

"But  she  does,"  Nigel  interposed. 

Hugh  shook  his  head. 

"Oh,  no.  She  has  discovered  that  some  'interesting' 
people  know  me,  that's  all.  'Interesting'  being  simply  the 
latest  label.  It  sounds  rather  better  than  'well-known,'  which 
is  its  equivalent  in  the  press.  I'm  a  new  carrot,  that  might  go 
into  her  social  soup." 

"You  think  very  well  of  yourself,"  said  Nigel  rather  tartly. 

"If  I  do,"  retorted  Hugh,  "it's  only  the  measure  of  my 
contempt  for  my  kind." 

Nigel  continued,  for  a  few  moments,  to  be  annoyed,  but  a 
little  reflection  convinced  him  that  he  did  not  want  Hugh  at 
Tenacre.  Hugh  somehow  contrived  to  make  the  Nugents 
appear  inferior;  Nigel  never  found  Edgar  so  banal  or  Mabel 
so  dangerously  near  vulgarity  as  in  his  company.  It  was 
impossible  to  say  how  he  produced  this  effect.  It  was  nothing 
that  he  said;  he  was,  as  a  rule,  quite  silent  on  the  rare  occasions 
when  they  met.  Nor  was  this  the  worst.  Hugh  made  Nigel 
himself  feel  inferior.  The  Nugents  gave  him  a  sense  of  superi- 
ority, which  Hugh  destroyed  by  relegating  them  all  in  their 
different  degrees  to  the  futile  and  the  obvious.  Nigel  did 
not  regard  himself  as  really  inferior  to  Hugh.  On  the  con- 
trary, in  the  most  important  respects  the  balance  seemed  to 
him  all  the  other  way.  For  life  Hugh  was  handicapped;  Nigel 
admirably  equipped.  Nevertheless,  on  an  occasion  on  which 
Nigel  wanted,  to  put  it  crudely,  to  shine,  Infield  might  be  a 
nuisance. 

Moreover,  another  and  much  better  solution  of  the  week- 
end problem  had  occurred  to  Nigel's  fertile  mind.  He  sat 
down  and  wrote  to  Mabel  saying  that  if  she  were  to  ask  Gervase 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  127 

O'Connor  and  Miss  Leonard  down  for  the  week-end  she  would 
at  least  ensure  the  happiness  of  one  person  in  addition  to  that 
which  it  always  caused  himself  to  be  at  Tenacre.  He  was 
delighted  to  come  on  the  Friday  night  as  she  suggested.  A 
plan  formed  itself  in  his  mind  for  motoring  Daphne  down.  He 
should  not  attempt  to  see  her  before  Friday;  that  would  be  a 
mistake.  Yet  he  wished  it  were  already  Thursday,  not  Monday. 


CHAPTER  TEN 

THINGS,  however,  did  not  work  out  quite  so  neatly  as  Nigel 
had  planned  them;  which  was  disconcerting,  for  his  plans 
generally  did  work  out.  Daphne  refused  to  be  motored 
down.  She  could  not  get  off  on  Friday,  and  she  seemed  unwilling 
or  unable  to  say  when  she^could  get  off  on  Saturday.  She  might 
have  to  go  up  to  the  flat,  and,  no,  Mr.  Strode  could  not  be  of 
any  assistance  there.  Nigel  slammed  down  the  receiver  after 
a  cool  "Good-bye"  from  her,  with  his  head  whirling.  He  did 
not  even  feel  sure  that  she  was  coming  down  at  all.  Had  Mabel 
Nugent,  in  an  incautiously  worded  invitation,  frightened  her 
about  Jimmy?  Hugh  was  right  about  Mabel,  after  all.  She 
was  not  to  be  trusted.  Or  was  it  Mrs.  Leonard's  influence, 
already  fatally  operating  on  her  daughter  from  afar?  Whatever 
it  was,  the  obstacle  spurred  Nigel's  impatience.  He  went  down 
to  Tenacre,  when  Friday  at  last  arrived,  in  something  like  a 
fever,  endangering  the  lives  of  many  innocent  people  on  the 
way  by  the  recklessness  of  his  driving. 

Tenacre  was  soothing.  In  May  it  was,  as  he  had  told 
Hugh,  perfect.  The  summer  darkness  was  gathering  as  he 
arrived,  but  he  could  see  that  in  the  large  park  which  Edgar 
had  recently  added,  and  which  made  the  modest  name  more 
of  a  misnomer  than  it;had  always  been,  the  beech  trees  were  pale 
green  and  the  ground  beneath  them  shimmering  with  hyacinths. 
The  place  smelt  exquisite:  it  breathed  the  flawless  sweetness  of 
early  English  summer. 

Mabel  Nugent  purred  over  him;  and  after  an  excellent  cold 
supper  at  which  he  talked  brilliantly  about  the  latest  phase  of 
the  Ulster  crisis  and  the  King's  visit  to  Paris,  Nigel  retired  early 

128 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  129 

to  bed,  to  recover  from  the  week's  fatigues  (about  which  his 
hostess  was  soothingly  sympathetic)  and  dream  of  what  the 
morrow  might  bring.  His  dreams  kept  him  awake  for  more  than 
an  hour;  but  the  conviction  that  this  restlessness  was  due  to  the 
violence  of  his-love  dissipated  any  lingering  doubt  as  to  Daphne's 
being  absolutely  the  right  person.  For  he  had  never  been  so 
excited  before.  Mabel  Nugent  had  said  that  after  seeing 
Daphne  once  or  twice  she  had  formed  no  impression  of  her  be- 
yond the  fact  that  she  was  a  rather  shy  and  not  remarkably 
pretty  girl,  and  Nigel  had  found  it  difficult  to  supply  her  with 
an  adequate  catalogue  of  attractions.  But  he  had  been  re- 
strained by  a  fear  of  Mabel's  too  quick  suspicions.  If  she 
suspected  even  half  of  what  he  saw  in  the  girl,  she  might  have 
refused  to  ask  her,  in  spite  of  the  promised  amusement  of  watch- 
ing Jimmy  in  love.  Mabel  was  all  right,  she  would  adore. 
Daphne  when  the  proper  time  came. 

On  Saturday  Nigel  awoke  happy,  eager.  The  sun  shone; 
the  garden,  as  he  leaned  out  of  his  window  on  leaping  out  of 
bed,  was  full  of  scent  and  colour.  Wall-flowers  and  polyanthus, 
sweet  alyssum  and  pansies  smiled  up  at  him  from  the  beds,  and 
below  him  was  a  mass  of  white  and  purple  lilac.  The  arbour 
was  all  gold  laburnum  and  the  orchard  a  drift  of  white  and  pink. 
He  sang  in  his  bath  and  came  down  smiling  to  a  late  breakfast. 

Walking  round  the  flower-beds  with  Mabel  Nugent  after- 
wards he  found  it  hard  to  keep  his  smile  from  broadening  into 
a  laugh,  a  disconnected  laugh  of  sheer  happiness.  Mabel  knew 
nothing  about  flowers:  the  gardeners  did  everything  at  Ten- 
acre;  but  she  talked  about  them  with  easy,  rapid,  unobservant 
enthusiasm,  just  as  she  talked  about  the  people  in  the  village. 
Nigel  hardly  heard  what  she  was  saying.  He  longed  to  tell  her 
about  Daphne,  but  refrained.  After  all,  it  was  great  fun, 
mystifying  her.  When  she  began  to  smile  over  Jimmy  O'Con- 
nor, he  played  up. 

"Jimmy  is  a  nice  boy,  you  know,"  she  said.  Nigel  made 
a  face;  the  description  was  rather  too  loose  and  inaccurate. 

"But,"  Mabel  went  on,  "I  can't  imagine  any  girl's  wanting 
to  marry  him.  He's  so  angular  and  so  queer.  I  am  never 
sure  that  I  know  what  he  means.  And  he  says  the  most  out- 


130  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

rageous  things.  Do  you  think  he  is  very  much  in  love  with 
her?  He  hasn't  told  me  anything  about  it. " 

"Oh,  yes,"  Nigel  answered  lightly.  "Jimmy  takes  things 
violently,  you  know." 

Mrs.  Nugent  reflected. 

"I  wonder  if  he'll  propose  down  here?  I  should  like  a  pro- 
posal at  Tenacre — it's  such  an  ideal  place,  isn't  it?" 

"Perfect,"  said  Nigel,  flicking  the  ash  from  his  cigarette 
and  blinking  up  at  the  brilliantly  blue  sky  as  he  smiled  to  him- 
self. "We  must  try  to  arrange  it  for  you.  I'll  speak  to  the 
young  man.  The  lady  is  coming,  I  suppose?  " 

"Oh,  yes.  They're  both  coming  down  by  the  five-forty, 
and  the  Carringtons,  too,  I  hope — one  must  call  them  that. 
They're  as  good  as  married;  it's  only  three  weeks  off.  I  ought 
to  have  asked  a  lady  for  you,  Nigel,  but  you'll  have  to  put  up 
with  me!" 

She  smiled  at  him  archly. 

"Haven't  I  come  down  on  Friday  night  on  purpose?  I  may 
have  to  return  on  Sunday,  you  know." 

"Oh,  your  horrid  paper.  Nigel,  you  were  wonderful  last 
night  about  Ulster.  Do  you  think  they'll  really  fight?" 

He  shook  his  head.     "All  bluff. " 

"Oh,  I  hope  not.  A  real  fight  would  be  so  exciting.  Noth- 
ing happens  nowadays — we  are  all  far  too  comfortable. " 

Nigel  found  the  morning  pass  away  easily  enough  in  spite 
of  his  excitement.  It  pleased  him,  that  excitement.  He  felt 
his  pulse  frequently,  with  satisfaction  in  its  rapidity.  How 
could  he  ever  have  doubted  his  own  capacity  to  feel?  He  was 
feeling,  and  his  feeling  was  happy.  It  made  his  brain  clear, 
his  step  light,  his  eyes  shining.  It  was  intense,  but  intense 
without  any  element  of  dread.  Yet  when  he  drove  down  to  the 
station  to  meet  the  five-forty  his  heart  thumped  almost  uncom- 
fortably. And  Gervase  was  a  bore:  he  wished  he  had  said 
nothing  about  him. 

Gervase  was  more  than  a  bore.  He  threatened  to  upset 
everything.  Daphne  was  there  all  right;  for  a  moment  he  had 
a  cold  fear  that  she  might  not  be.  She  was  there  and  adorable 
in  a  little  hat  with  wings  of  yellow  ribbon  under  which  her  eyes 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  131 

shone  luminous,  almost  green.  But  after  a  quick  handshake 
she  deposited  her  bag  in  the  car  and  declared  that  she  intended 
to  walk  up  to  the  house.  It  was  too  extraordinary  to  be  in  the 
country  after  Poplar.  She  stood  looking  up  at  the  larches,  pale 
green  with  rosy  cones,  smiling  a  little,  and  Gervase  smiled  too 
and,  of  course,  said  he  would  walk  with  her. 

Nigel  was  left  to  conduct  Evangeline  Toller,  whose  trailing 
hems  unfitted  her  for  any  kind  of  exercise,  and  Royal  Carrington, 
who  neither  could  drive  nor  would  walk.  Getting  in  all  Evange- 
line's  boxes  took  some  time.  When  the  car  passed  the  other  two 
on  the  road  they  were  clear  of  the  village,  standing  under  a  tree, 
while  Jimmy  with  fingers  that  Nigel  saw,  or  imagined  he  saw, 
shaking,  lit  Daphne's  cigarette.  Daphne  waved  her  hat,  which 
she  had  taken  off  and  carried  slung  over  her  arm,  and  her  light 
laugh  rang  out  at  some  remark  of  her  companion's  as  the  car 
whirled  away.  Nigel  felt  baulked  and  angry. 

In  the  evening  there  was  a  dinner  party.  Tiresome  people 
of  importance  in  the  constituency  who  lived  within  motoring 
distance  of  Tenacre  came,  and  Nigel  was  sandwiched  among 
them  and  compelled  to  talk  politics  at  Edgar's  end  of  the  table. 
Gaiety  was  reserved  for  the  other  end,  with  Jimmy  as  its  centre. 
His  elder  brother  Fergus  had  recently  been  from  Rome,  where 
he  was  in  the  Embassy,  to  Vienna,  whence  he  had  written  home 
wondrous  reports,  some  apparently  excruciatingly  funny,  of 
the  representation,  by  the  great  Viennese  producer,  of  Magda- 
lena.  Royal  Carrington  seemed  to  enjoy  them,  for  Jimmy 
was  in  great  form.  Glancing  again  and  again  towards  that  end 
of  the  table,  Nigel  saw  Daphne's  eager  eyes,  all  light,  turned  to 
the  young  man.  She  was  looking  lovely  in  a  clear  primrose 
yellow  dress,  and  she  seemed  to  be  talking  more  than  usual. 
It  was  no  wonder  that  Jimmy  was  brilliant,  or  that  his  laugh 
rang  out  triumphant,  or  so  it  sounded  in  Nigel's  ears.  Why, 
he  asked  himself,  had  he  been  such  an  ass  as  to  give  him  this 
chance?  There  had  been  a  moment,  as  he  drove  down  to  the 
station,  when  he  had  felt  sorry  for  Jimmy;  but  now  he  only 
longed  for  the  moment  when  he  should  see  him  suffer . 

It  did  not  come  that  night.  Saturday  was  Jimmy's  day, 
and  on  Sunday  his  star  seemed  still  in  the  ascendant.  The 


132  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

morning  was  hopelessly  gregarious:  they  all  walked  and  talked, 
but  Nigel  had  no  word  with  Daphne.  On  the  contrary,  he  had 
the  sensation,  when  chance  left  them  for  a  moment  side  by  side, 
that  she  avoided  his  eyes,  avoided  speaking  to  him,  took  refuge 
gladly  in  gregariousness,  and  would  baffle  him  if  she  could. 
After  lunch  Mabel  carried  off  Evangeline  Toller  and  Royal 
Carrington  in  the  car  to  pay  a  call;  and  Nigel,  wandering  out 
into  the  garden  after  their  departure,  guessed  that  Gervase  had 
seized  Daphne  for  a  walk.  Muttering  imprecations  on  his  own 
stupidity,  he  turned  from  the  sunny  terrace  into  the  smoke 
room.  There  he  moved  about  aimlessly,  lifting  up  and  laying 
down  papers  and  periodicals,  biting  at  his  cigarette  till  it  went 
out.  A  crunching  on  the  gravel  outside  made  him  look  up. 
Edgar  Nugent  never  remembered  his  wife's  hints,  bless  him. 
There  he  was,  carrying  off  Jimmy  to  look  at  his  ponds:  ponds 
in  which  the  poor  young  man  could  have  no  interest. 

They  disappeared.  Nigel  watched  them,  smiling.  Sunday 
was  his,  after  all.  But  where  was  Daphne?  He  threw  away 
his  dead  cigarette  and  lit  another  with  fingers  that  positively 
trembled.  His  plan  was  going  to  work.  Jimmy  had  only  been 
tantalised  by  the  opportunity  that  he  might  more  keenly  realise 
that  it  was  not  his  at  all.  The  chance  was  Nigel's  and  it  was 
here.  For  a  moment  he  stood  on  the  terrace  looking  round. 
Daphne  was  out  of  doors  somewhere.  Of  that  he  felt  no  doubt. 
But  as  his  eye  travelled  rapidly  over  the  brilliant  flower-beds 
of  the  garden  and  strove  to  penetrate  the  white  and  pink  of 
the  orchard  he  saw  no  sign  of  her.  Tenacre  had  become  ex- 
tensive and  she  might  have  gone  a  long  way.  Edgar,  however, 
adored  his  ponds,  and  could  be  trusted  to  bore  Gervase  with 
them  until  his  infallible  sense  of  tea  called  them  back  to  the 
house,  and  the  others  were  not  due  till  dinner.  The  long  sum- 
mer afternoon  was  before  him.  The  sun  beat  down  on  his  bare 
head  as  he  ran  down  the  steps  of  the  terrace,  the  scent  of  the 
wall-flowers  and  lilacs  rose  up  intoxicating  as  he  crossed  the 
garden. 

Nigel's  heart  beat  fast  as  he  paused  for  a  moment  to  look 
round.  A  perfect  stillness  wrapped  the  place.  The  road  was 
far  away;  no  sound  of  passing  motors  reached  him.  As  he  stood 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  133 

listening,  he  heard  the  birds  in  the  trees,  nothing  more.  The 
branches  overhead  did  not  move.  A  white  butterfly  flew  in 
and  out  among  the  flowers  and  brushed  his  face  for  an  instant. 
Then  it  darted  off  in  the  direction  of  the  park. 

Nigel  smiled.  It  was  a  happy  omen.  He  turned  to  the  left 
and,  crossing  the  drive,  struck  in  among  the  beech  trees,  their 
leaves  dappled  pale  and  dark  as  the  sun  glanced  through  the 
branches  and  fell  on  the  sheets  of  azure  hyacinths  shimmering 
round  their  roots.  It  was  all  lovely,  but  Daphne  was  not  there. 
No  sign  of  her  on  any  path  he  tried.  He  came  out  on  to  a  little 
grass  clearing:  a  fairy  ring  of  short  velvety  mosslike  turf.  Be- 
yond it  lay  the  big  oaks  clothed  in  the  exquisite  yellow-green  of 
their  early  leaf,  and  beyond  them  the  hawthorns.  He  remem- 
bered a  conversation  he  had  had  with  Daphne  about  haw- 
thorns, and  how  she  had  said  that  a  red  hawthorn  tree  seemed 
to  her  the  most  joyful  thing  in  nature,  the  real  burning  bush. 
He  could  hear  her  voice  now  as  she  spoke  a  verse  which  evi- 
dently meant  much  to  her,  though  to  him  it  was  unknown — 

"They  will  return,  the  birds  who  singing  sat 
Upon  the  branches  of  red  hawthorn  trees: 
Green  blue  and  golden  in  the  summer  breeze, 
Rejoicing  in  the  world's  Magnificat." 

And  the  hawthorns  here  were  amazing.  They  had  been  the 
pride  of  the  old  owner  of  Tenacre — a  gentle  old  man  to  whom  the 
place  had  belonged  as  an  inheritance  from  generations  of  yeo- 
men farmers,  and  who  had  died  broken-hearted  when  compelled 
to  sell  it  bit  by  bit;  and  Nigel,  who  had  known  him,  remembered 
how  he  had  said  with  pride  that  there  were  none  so  large  in 
the  South  of  England:  none  that  blossomed  so  freely  or  whose 
flowers  were  so  rich  a  red.  Birds  from  three  counties,  he  had 
said,  came  in  the  winter  to  eat  the  berries.  Yes,  Daphne  was 
sure  to  have  found  the  hawthorns. 

He  crossed  the  fairy  ring  and  stood  looking.  Against  the 
blue  and  white  of  the  sky  they  blazed,  crimson,  rose  and  scarlet 
in  the  sun:  perfect  in  shape,  with  wide,  uncurled  branches  that 
almost  touched  the  ground  under  their  weight  of  blossom.  At 


134  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

first  he  saw  only  the  trees:  felt  only  the  thick  fresh  smell  that 
came  to  him  on  the  warm  air.  No  sign  of  any  white-clad 
Daphne  sitting  beneath  them  or  wandering  in  and  out.  Even 
when  he  was  right  up  under  the  biggest  tree  he  saw  nothing, 
heard  nothing  but  the  faint  rustle  of  the  grass  or  the  soft  fall  of 
a  shower  of  petals  as  a  sudden  breeze  stirred  the  branches:  that 
and  the  singing  of  the  birds  high  up  among  the  leaves. 

Suddenly  another  sound  broke  in  upon  his  ears,  a  low  hesi- 
tating laugh,  the  laugh  of  some  wood  nymph  or  fairy,  invisible, 
mocking  his  perplexity.  Nigel  looked  down,  around,  and  saw 
nothing,  then  up,  and  saw.  At  the  top  of  one  of  the  wide- 
extending  branches  of  a  tree  bigger  than  any  hawthorn  he  had 
ever  seen,  half  hidden  by  the  massed  and  clustering  blossom 
which  fell  down  on  him  in  little  sparks  of  fire  as  she  moved, 
Daphne  was  sitting  and  smiling  down  at  him. 

Nigel,  looking  up,  felt  his  heart  contract  with  a  sudden  joy 
that  was  almost  painful.  Daphne  up  there,  with  her  little 
brown  head  seen  against  the  rose-red  of  the  hawthorn,  was  like 
the  spirit  of  the  joyous  Spring;  he  suddenly  felt  as  though  he 
ought  to  fall  down  on  his  knees  before  her  and  then  turn  away. 
Only  for  an  instant.  The  absurd  feeling  passed,  the  feeling 
that  he  had  nothing  to  give,  swept  away  in  the  immensity  of 
what  he  needed  to  take.  She  stood  for  everything  he  wanted 
as  his  own,  for  the  very  flame  of  life  itself,  that  would  shine 
on  for  him  in  her  when  the  tree  had  withered,  its  flowers  fallen, 
its  leaves  shrunk  and  dry. 

"Oh,  Daphne!"  he  murmured  at  last.  For  a  moment  they 
looked  at  one  another,  and  Nigel,  generally  so  ready  with  words, 
felt  his  gone,  not  needed. 

"Why  are  you  hiding  from  me  up  there?  " 

Daphne  smiled,  a  faint  tremulous  smile.  Her  lips  parted, 
but  he  heard  nothing.  She  continued  to  look  at  him,  and  as 
she  looked  Nigel  felt  his  happiness  mounting,  mounting  to  his 
head  like  the  fumes  of  some  rare  wine:  filling  him  with  courage 
and  extraordinary  strength. 

"All  these  days  you've  hidden  from  me.     Haven't  you?  " 

Daphne's  eyes  were  still  on  his  face.  She  nodded.  Her 
face  had  grown  pale,  her  mouth  was  set,  unsmiling. 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  135 

"But  why?"  he  pleaded. 

She  grew  a  shade  paler;  but  this  time  Nigel  heard  what  she 
said,  although  her  voice  was  so  low  that  it  might  have  been  the 
leaves  rustling. 

"I  was  afraid " 

"Afraid?  .  .  .  afraid  of  me?"    He  almost  shouted  it. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Not  of  you.     Of  myself. " 

Nigel  looked  up  at  her  still;  and  as  he  looked  something 
passed  from  her  eyes  to  his  that  lit  them  so  that  they  shone 
as  hers  were  shining. 

"Ah,  but  dearest!  You  mustn't.  I  shall  come  right  up 
into  your  tree  and  carry  you  away  from  your  fear. " 

He  caught  hold  of  the  knotty  branch  with  one  hand  and,  plac- 
ing his  foot  against  the  trunk,  swung  himself  up.  One  more 
strain  and  he  was  kneeling  on  the  gnarled  limb  that  curved  round 
so  that  he  was  quite  near  where  the  girl  sat,  leaning  back  against 
the  trunk,  her  eyes  so  bright  that  her  face  looked  transparent, 
lit  with  a  radiance  that  Nigel  had  never  seen  on  any  face 
before. 

"Oh,  Nigel!"  she  murmured.  "What  are  you  doing  to 
me?" 

A  rapid  shift  had  seated  him  securely  astride  his  branch,  and 
he  caught  her  hands  in  his  and  drew  her  face  towards  him  as  he 
cried — 

"  Doing,  my  darling?  I  am  going  to  make  you  happy  as  you 
have  never  been  in  all  your  life." 

"Yes,"  she  breathed.  "Yes,  Nigel."  Her  head  lay 
against  his  shoulder  and  her  eyes  looked  up  to  his. 

"And  to  begin  with,  I'm  going  to  bring  the  colour  back  to 
those  pale  cheeks.  You  mustn't  give  it  all  to  the  hawthorn 
flowers,  it's  mine  now,  mine."  He  kissed  her  again  and  again 
as  he  spoke. 

Daphne  leaned  against  him,  her  lips  trembling  into  a  smile, 
her  eyes  wet. 

"Oh,  Nigel,"  she  murmured  again.  "Is  it  real?"  She 
looked  round  her  up  into  the  rose-red  tree,  down  through  the  rose 
at  the  green  and  gold  at  their  feet,  up  to  the  blue  of  the  sky 


136  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

diapered  on  to  the  branches,  and  then,  at  last,  into  his  face. 
As  her  eyes  met  his  the  colour  came  flooding  back  to  her  checks 
and  her  smile  broke  into  a  laugh,  a  laugh  that  to  his  ears  was 
purest  music. 

"I  can't  believe  it's  me!"  she  cried.  "Me  that  you  care 
for." 

"Care  for  ...  Oh,  Daphne!  I  so  much  more  than  care 
for  you. " 

She  laughed  again.  "Ah,  but  it's  a  great,  great  deal,  caring 
for  a  person.  I  am  happy — happy! — if  you  care  for  me." 

"Daphne,"  he  cried  earnestly.  "I  adore  you.  I  worship 
you.  You  don't  know  ...  I  can't  say.  You're  everything 
to  me.  Joy,  youth,  hope,  reality,  the  key  to  all  the  mysteries 
of  life,  the  answer  to  all  its  questions.  I've  always  felt  shut 
out  .  .  .  Now  I'm  in." 

"Oh,  but  you,  Nigel?  You  who  understand  everything. 
.  .  .  You  mustn't  have  that  sort  of  wonderful  idea  of  me.  I'm 
not  like  that.  I'm  not  like  you.  ...  I'm  crude  and  inexperi- 
enced and  slow.  ...  I  don't  see  all  of  you  yet,  you're  too  fine 
and  delicate  for  me.  I  can  only  do  plain  sewing.  But  I'll 
try." 

"You  do  love  me,  darling?" 

"Yes."  She  looked  at  him  now  very  gravely.  "Yes,  I 
love  you." 

"Then  what  does  anything  else  matter?  We've  got  all  our 
lives  to  find  out  the  pattern  .  .  .  together  .  .  .  Oh,  Daphne!" 

When  at  last  they  came  down  from  their  tree  and  walked 
hand  in  hand  across  the  fairy  ring  and  through  the  beech  trees 
and  the  hyacinths,  slowly,  reluctantly  towards  the  house,  the 
sun  had  sunk  behind  the  little  hill,  and  the  colour  was  dying 
from  the  hawthorns,  all  but  the  topmost  branches,  still  crowned 
with  fire.  Long  shadows  lay  across  the  wood.  Golden  light 
steeped  the  wide  grass  swathes  of  the  park,  and  the  level  rays 
of  the  setting  sun  dazzled  them  as  they  stepped  out  into  the 
avenue.  At  the  entrance  to  the  garden  some  one  was  standing. 
Not  till  they  were  quite  near  him  did  Nigel  see  that  it  was  Ger- 
vase,  standing  so  still  that  Daphne  had  not  seen  him  at  all.  He 
stood  aside  to  let  them  pass,  and  as  they  passed  Daphne  looked 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  137 

up  and  saw  him.  Something  that  she  saw  in  his  face  made  her 
utter  a  little  sudden  cry.  She  would  have  dropped  Nigel's 
hand,  but  he  held  hers  hard  and  looked  straight  into  the  young 
man's  flushed  face. 

Gervase  turned  sharply  on  his  heel  and  walked  away  from 
them,  away  from  the  house,  into  the  wood. 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

IT  all  looks  quite  nice,  doesn't  it?"  Daphne  spoke  dubi- 
ously, as  if  she  would  have  been  glad  of  reassurance.  She 
stood  in  the  centre  of  the  drawing-room  of  Mrs.  Leonard's 
flat,  surveying  it  with  critical  eye.  Clean  and  very  fresh  it 
all  looked,  if  a  little  austere  and  colourless  and  conspicuously 
empty;  with  its  white  walls  bare  save  for  the  Muirhead  Bone 
drypoint  over  the  mantelpiece,  and  the  holland-covered  chairs 
and  straight  curtains  matching  the  pale  matting  on  the  floor. 
Certainly  there  was  no  trace  left  of  the  departed  tenants,  who 
had  converted  the  rooms  into  "quite  a  snug  little  nest"  by 
means  of  rugs,  photographs,  hangings,  draperies  and  artificial 
flowers. 

"Very  nice  indeed,  my  darling,"  murmured  Nigel,  taking 
Daphne's  hand  with  his  as  he  slipped  his  arm  round  her. 

"Your  rose  tree  is  lovely,  Nigel."  Her  eyes  rested  on  the 
tall  rambler,  covered  with  deep  pink  blossom,  that  stood  on  a 
little  low  black  table  by  the  window,  its  flowers  touched  to  fire 
by  the  afternoon  sun.  "It  will  be  just  right  for  mother  to  see 
that  first  thing.  It's  so  like  you.  Otherwise  the  room  looks 
to  me  somehow  rather  dead.  I  can't  make  it  better,  but  you'll 
see,  as  soon  as  she  comes,  the  difference.  It  will  be  full  of  her." 

For  only  reply  Nigel  kissed  her  on  the  forehead.  A  sharp 
sting  of  premonition  of  how  full  the  room  would,  in  a  few 
hours  now,  be  of  Mrs.  Leonard,  already  smote  him.  For  the 
last  two  days,  indeed  since  her  arrival  had  been  definitely  fixed 
for  this  very  Tuesday  evening,  he  had  been  almost  perpetually 
conscious  of  a  kind  of  oppression  that  was  now  culminating  in 
this  sharper  sense  of  dread.  It  asserted  itself,  his  dread,  through 

138 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  139 

and  in  spite  of  the  feeling  that  the  week  had  given  him  of  an 
absolute  security  as  far  as  Daphne  was  concerned.  It  had  been 
a  week  of  amazing  flawless  happiness;  a  week  on  wings,  thrilled, 
uplifted  and  carried  high  by  Daphne's  joy.  Joy — any  other 
word  seemed  too  faint  and  weak — radiated  from  her;  it  shone 
in  her  deep  clear  eyes,  curved  her  lips  even  when  she  was  not 
smiling,  and  gave  to  her  a  loveliness  beyond  the  veiled  charm 
she  had  had  before.  Nigel  felt  as  though  he  were  watching 
the  opening  in  the  sunshine  of  some  lovely,  dewy  flower,  whose 
scent  and  colour  were  there  for  him  alone.  To  others  he 
supposed  she  had  not  changed ;  but  he  saw  her  as  incarnate  light 
and  felt  that  light  play  round  him  as  he  murmured  to  himself — 
"Daphne  loves  me."  Analysis  need  go  no  further;  that  was 
elemental  and  at  the  same  time  final.  She  had  said  it  and  the 
conviction  of  its  truth  had  passed  through  his  veins  like  liquid 
fire;  to  say  it  to  himself  was  to  be  dazzled  again  and  warmed; 
to  hear  her  say  it  was  to  feel  every  doubt  as  to  the  reality  of 
himself  or  the  beauty  of  the  world  vanish  for  ever.  He  wanted 
it  repeated  again  and  again.  She  need  say  nothing  else, 
if  she  said  that;  to  say  that  was  Daphne;  more  was  not 
needed. 

So  now  he  pressed  her  hand  and  murmured,  after  they  had 
stood  silent  for  some  minutes,  she  gazing  at  the  rose  tree — 

"Daphne  .  .  .  you  still  love  me,  don't  you?" 

Daphne  slightly  turned  her  head  so  that  she  looked  into 
his  face.  As  he  knelt  on  the  edge  of  a  chair  and  she  leaned 
a  little  against  him,  their  eyes  were  level.  She  smiled;  her 
eyes  widened. 

"Say  it,  Daphne,"  he  urged. 

Daphne's  smile  grew. 

"Still?"  She  lifted  her  chin  and  laughed.  "Oh,  Nigel— 
always.  .  .  .  From  the  beginning,  to  the  end." 

"From  the  beginning?"  Nigel  broke  in  eagerly.  "Really 
from  the  beginning?  From  that  day  on  Box  Hill?" 

Daphne  opened  her  lips;  paused  and  closed  them  again. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  teased  her.  "You  musn't  keep  things  shut 
in  like  that,  Daphne!  That's  not  allowed.  Those  are  just 
the  thoughts  that  you  have  got  to  learn  to  let  out." 


140  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

"What,  all  of  them?"  She  looked  away  from  him  now, 
back  to  the  rose  tree. 

"Yes,  all  of  them,  especially  those  that  you  think  better 
of!  I'm  sure  there  are  so  many  things  you  think  better  of 
saying,  aren't  there?" 

"Not  half  enough,"  she  answered  gravely.  "Oh,  no.  You 
think  me  silent,  but  it's  only  a  sort  of  nervousness  that  makes 
me  say  the  most  hopelessly  wrong  things  when  I  do  talk.  Hav- 
ing kept  them  back  often  only  makes  them  worse  when  they 
do  come  out,  you  see." 

Nigel  laughed. 

"Well,  you  might  let  this  one  out.  When  was  the  begin- 
ning?" 

Daphne  was  silent  for  a  minute,  then  she  said  slowly — 

"The  beginning  was  a  time  you  don't  even  remember. 
At  the  Tollers — in  my  second  year  at  Newnham.  You  were 
staying  there,  I  think,  or  spending  the  day.  I  came  in  to  tea. 
You  didn't  say  anything  to  me.  You  talked  all  the  time  to 
Myrtle — but  I  saw  you."  She  paused.  She  looked  at  him 
for  an  instant,  then  quickly  away.  "I've  seen  you  ever 
since." 

Nigel  kissed  her,  but  his  mind  was  alive  with  questions. 
There  were  things  he  longed  to  hear  her  ask.  But  she  seldom 
asked  him  anything.  Did  she  know  about  Myrtle,  and  what 
did  she  know?  They  were  friends;  but  he  could  not  guess  how 
much  intimacy  that  vague  word  covered  in  this  case.  He  could 
imagine  Myrtle  discussing  the  situation  at  any  stage  with 
perfect  frankness;  but  not  Daphne  even  so  much  as  listening 
to  her.  Conversation  with  her  would  not  run,  he  fancied,  on 
those  lines.  ...  It  struck  him  as  strange  that  he  should  suddenly 
feel  that  it  would  have  been  easier  to  tell  her  about  Myrtle  if 
there  had  been  more  to  tell.  The  thinness  of  the  relation 
seemed  the  part  of  it  she  would  least  like  or  understand.  And 
to  present  it  as  anything  else  but  thin  was  impossible.  Time 
made  it  inconceivable  as  the  tragedy  with  which  Daphne  would 
have  sympathised.  As  he  looked  down  at  her  glowing  face, 
saw  his  own  image  reflected  in  her  eyes,  Nigel  felt  the  whole 
Myrtle  episode  as  absurd  and  irrelevant.  This  was  real; 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  141 

nothing  else  even  had  been;  this  was  eternal,  as  everything  real 
must  be. 

"You  won't  stop?  You  won't  get  tired  of  me?"  he 
said. 

"Tired  of  you?  Nigel,  sometimes  you  don't  seem  to  under- 
stand at  all.  How  can  you  care  for  me  if  you  think  me  like 
that?"  Daphne's  voice  rose  in  a  quick,  pained  staccato. 

"Ah!  It's  not  you,  it's  me."  Nigel  had  become  serious; 
almost  sad.  "You  might  find  out  that  I  was  stupid — slow;  I 
shall  never  be  a  great  man,  or  do  great  work.  I'm  not  any  of 
the  wonderful  things  you  think  me." 

Daphne  was  smiling  again  now. 

"But  you  don't  understand  a  bit,  Nigel.  I  can't  explain; 
but  what  you  do,  in  that  sense,  is  nothing.  It's  what  you  are. 
How  you  feel  things;  how  you  see  them.  It's  your  being  fine. 
When  you  say  'great,'  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  My  idea 
of  greatness  is  fineness.  I  can't  explain,  but  I  know  what  I 
mean.  So  do  you.  I  used  to  be  afraid  that  I  might  not  have 
the  eyes  to  see  fineness.  I'm  clumsy;  I  go  flop  into  things. 
Mother  used  to  tell  me  that  was  my  danger.  Because  you 
only  see  fine  things  slowly;  they  come  to  you,  you  can't  rush 
out  to  them.  .  .  .  That's  why  I  feel  so  wonderfully  happy  and 
so  sure.  If  you  do  see  fineness,  you  can't  want  to  look  away; 
it's  ultimate.  So  when  you  talk  about  stopping  or  getting 
tired — it  seems  to  me  just .  .  .  funny." 

She  spoke  slowly,  dropping  the  words  out  so  that  they 
came  to  him  with  an  accent  of  intense  truth.  Nigel,  holding 
her  hand,  watching  her  face,  felt  his  heart  beat  fast,  so  fast  that 
it  almost  frightened  him. 

"Oh,  Daphne!"  he  murmured,  lifting  her  fingers  and 
pressing  his  lips  to  them,  hot  and  passionate.  Nothing  more 
came  to  him  to  say.  Across  his  mind  phrases  exquisite  and 
tender  flitted;  they  hovered  over  him,  but  somehow  just  beyond 
his  reach,  refusing  to  settle  into  any  adequate  response. 

But  Daphne  did  not  seem  to  expect  any  response.  She 
knew.  After  a  moment  she  gently  released  her  hand  and 
moved  slowly  round  the  room,  inspecting  everything,  shaking 
the  curtains  into  more  perfect  shape,  turning  the  rose  tree 


142  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

half-an-inch  to  bring  a  specially  fine  cluster  into  view,  re-arrang- 
ing the  clean  blotting  paper  and  new  quills  on  the  large  bureau 
in  the  corner,  patting  the  books  in  the  shelves  so  that  none  stuck 
out  beyond  the  others.  Nigel  watched  her,  smiling  as  she  finally 
paused  before  the  fireplace  and  stood  looking  in  at  the  empty 
grate. 

"Hopeless  thing,  a  fireplace  when  there's  nothing  in  it," 
she  said.  "I  haven't  an  idea  what  to  do  with  it — it  must  wait 
for  mother.  She'll  know.  .  .  .  What's  the  time,  Nigel?" 

Nigel  frowned. 

"That's  the  third  time  you've  asked  me  since  tea.  It's 
half -past  five." 

Daphne  turned  round  quickly — she  had  not  observed  the 
frown. 

"Half -past  five.  Oh,  Nigel — we  must  go.  It  would  be 
dreadful  to  be  late — 

"I  suppose  you  won't  take  a  taxi?" 

"Oh,  no.     No.     Certainly  not.     Not  to  meet  mother." 

"Why?     Does  she  think  them  wrong?" 

It  was  Daphne's  turn  to  frown  a  little,  though  Nigel  had 
spoken  jestingly. 

"Mother?  I  don't  know.  But  that's  not  the  point.  The 
point  is  the  things  with  her,  like  the  things  I  do  with  you,  have 
to  be  quite  right.  ...  I  might  go  to  the  dentist  in  a  taxi — not 
to  meet  mother." 

Nigel  laughed.     He  did  not  in  the  least  see  it. 

"Absurd  child!"  he  murmured. 

Daphne  had  meantime  picked  up  the  small  hat  with  long 
floating  velvet  ribbons  lying  on  the  chair  by  the  door  and  put 
it  on  her  head.  With  gloves,  bag  and  parasol  collected  she  was 
ready;  but  Nigel  had  made  no  move. 

"Aren't  you  coming,  Nigel?" 

He  rose.     "I'll  come  down  to  the  'bus  with  you." 

"Train,  I  think,"  she  corrected.  "I  must  not  be  late. 
Train  to  Charing  Cross  is  as  quick  as  a  taxi." 

"Horribly  hot  and  stuffy,"  murmured  Nigel. 

They  emerged  from  the  lift  into  the  hall  and  from  the  hall 
into  the  hot  glare  of  the  street. 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  143 

"But  aren't  you  coming  to  the  station?"  Daphne  returned 
to  the  point.  Nigel  crossed  behind  her  to  take  the  outside  of 
the  pavement  and  quickened  his  steps  to  keep  up  with  hers, 
whose  rapidity  he  felt  was  due  to  rising  excitement  caused  not 
by  him,  but  by  her  mother's  approach. 

"No,  dearest,  if  you  don't  mind,  I'm  not."  Daphne  looked 
at  him  quickly,  and  then  away.  "I'm  sure  your  mother  would 
rather  have  you  to  herself." 

Daphne  did  not  look  at  him  again.  Her  eyes  were  busy  in 
threading  the  speediest  passage  through  the  irritating  throng  of 
slowly  moving  people  that  blocked  the  path  in  front  of  the 
windows  of  the  shops.  Nor  did  she  say  anything.  Nigel  was 
grateful  to  her  for  not  arguing.  After  all,  it  did  not  matter 
what  she  thought;  it  could  only  be  the  tiniest  temporary  cloud, 
to  be  kissed  away  when  next  they  met.  He  would  have  argued 
had  she  protested;  for  he  was  not  going  to  the  station.  That 
he  had  known  all  along;  though  he  had  only  realised  that  he 
knew  it  when  Daphne's  anxiety  about  the  time  waked  him  by 
its  prick  of  annoyance. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  District  Station  Arcade  Nigel  raised 
his  hat  smiling;  Daphne  did  not  smile,  but  in  her  eyes  there  was 
no  reproach.  Nigel  might  guess  as  he  walked  away  at  all  the 
lovely  reasons  she  was  making  for  his  defection  and  find  none 
too  lovely  for  her  mind. 

On  Charing  Cross  platform  the  first  person  Daphne  saw  was 
Hugh  Infield.  He  was  standing  quite  still,  leaning  against  an 
automatic  machine  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground  in  a  stare 
of  such  genuine  abstraction  that  he  did  not  notice  Daphne. 
The  train  was  indicated  as  being  fifteen  minutes  late;  and  she 
paused  at  a  few  paces  from  Hugh,  unwilling  to  break  in  upon 
his  thoughts.  Something  constrained  her,  however,  to  look 
at  him,  absently  at  first,  for  her  own  thoughts  were  elsewhere, 
fixed  on  her  mother,  approaching  swiftly,  every  moment  bring- 
ing her  nearer,  nearer;  and  on  what  her  mother  would  say, 
would  feel.  Her  mother  had  met  Nigel.  That  was  a  joyous 
reflection.  She  need  not  embark  upon  the  impossible  task  of 
describing.  Of  course,  there  were  things  to  tell  that  even  Mrs. 
Leonard,  wonderful  as  her  perception  was,  could  not  know,  and 


144  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

on  these  things  Daphne  wandered  off — lost  as  Hugh  was  lost 
to  the  scene  around  her.  Some  one  passing  jostled  her  arm  and 
woke  her  up,  and  her  mind  returned  to  Hugh,  on  whom  her 
absent  eyes  had  been  fixed. 

How  extraordinarily  unlike  Nigel  he  was!  Every  one,  now, 
came  before  Daphne's  mind  in  cruel  comparison  with  him;  as 
she  sat  in  the  train  or  'bus,  or  walked  along  the  streets,  she 
surveyed  the  men  sitting  or  walking,  and  felt  sorry  for  the 
women  whose  affections  had  to  find  rest  on  them  instead  of 
on  Nigel.  With  Hugh,  however,  the  comparison  was  even  more 
insistent.  Hugh  lived  with  Nigel;  had,  amazing  thought,  lived 
with  him  for  more  than  two  years.  He  must  know  Nigel 
quite  well.  Not  as  she  knew  him,  of  course;  Daphne  smiled 
to  herself.  No  one  knew  him  as  she  knew  him;  no  one,  in 
effect,  knew  him  but  she;  but  Hugh,  happy  Hugh,  knew  him  just 
in  the  way  she  did  not.  She  knew  his  soul,  his  inner  life,  she 
saw  his  essence  more  clearly  than  his  modesty  allowed  him  to 
see  it  himself;  but  Hugh  saw  him  all  day  and  every  day;  Hugh 
knew  him  at  breakfast,  lunch  and  dinner;  he  sat  and  talked 
with  Hugh  over  the  fire.  His  every  day,  external  man  was 
familiar  to  Hugh,  as  not  to  her.  Hugh  knew  his  history;  had 
known  him  perhaps  as  a  boy — an  adorable  boy — Daphne  saw 
him  in  jackets  and  a  stiff  Eton  collar;  as  an  undergraduate; 
raw — as  if  Nigel  had  ever  been  raw! — undistinguished  by  the 
fine  discriminations  that  marked  him  now.  She  wondered  as 
she  looked  at  Hugh  whether  he  appreciated  his  rare  advantages. 
She  saw  Nigel  as  she  had  seen  him  half-an-hour  ago,  vivid  in 
all  save  his  face,  blurred  in  her  imagination  from  too  much  fond 
gazing,  slim,  erect,  graceful,  elegant  without  dandyism  in  his 
grey  summer  suit  and  the  bright  tie  that  was  not  so  bright  a 
blue  as  his  eyes;  his  mouth  lifted  in  its  charming  crooked  smile. 
Hugh  stood  before  her,  in  shabby  dark  clothes  with  bulging 
pockets,  his  head,  bent  forward  on  his  chest,  grizzled  under 
his  slouch  felt  hat;  his  eyes  behind  their  spectacles  almost 
tragic  in  their  absorbed  stare.  Daphne  felt  suddenly  sorry 
for  Hugh.  He  looked  so  battered  and  uncared  for.  Nigel 
shone  with  youth;  and,  yes,  with  happiness.  A  lump  rose  in 
her  throat;  that  happiness  was  partly  due  to  her.  It  was 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  145 

hardly  credible;  but  she  had  to  do  with  Nigel's  shining  eyes. 
They  shone  for  her.  If  he  were  dreaming  now  he  dreamed  of 
her.  Had  Hugh's  sombre  eyes  ever  shone?  Had  tender  hands 
once  smoothed  his  rough  hair?  To  Daphne,  Hugh,  who  be- 
longed to  the  world  in  which  she  had  grown  up,  seemed  old;  he 
belonged  to  the  generation  for  whom  she  had  assumed  that 
feeling  was  over.  But  once  he  must  have  felt,  and  if  he  had 
felt  at  all,  he  had  probably  felt  a  great  deal. 

At  this  point  Hugh  looked  up,  and  his  eyes,  still  abstracted 
as  they  were,  answered  her  question.  Yes,  he  had  cared.  Poor 
Hugh.  It  was  with  a  catch  in  her  voice  that,  stepping  towards 
him,  she  said,  as  she  held  out  her  hand — 

"Oh,  Hugh,  how  nice  to  see  you.  ...  I  have  come  down 
to  meet  mother." 

She  said  it  as  if  she  had  come  to  meet  the  Queen,  but  Hugh 
seemed  to  feel  no  incongruity  in  the  triumphant  ring  of  her 
voice.  He  clasped  her  hand  and  wrung  it  hard. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "So  have  I.  I  always  used  to  come  and 
meet  her,  you  know.  Oh,  ever  so  long  ago,  when  you  were  a 
tiny  tot." 

Daphne  was  looking  up  into  his  eyes;  and,  absurd  as  she 
felt  it,  her  own  were  filling.  Nothing  came  to  her  to  say,  and 
for  a  few  minutes  they  stood  so,  side  by  side.  A  sudden  sad- 
ness had  swept  over  the  girl,  a  sadness  that  was  somehow  both 
beautiful  and  strange.  There  was  borne  in  upon  her  a  sense  of 
the  range  and  reach  of  human  life,  of  unexplored  depths  and 
darknesses  into  which  she  would,  one  day,  have  to  penetrate. 
They  had  stretched  out  before  her,  mysterious  but  not  terrify- 
ing, as  she  looked  into  Hugh's  eyes.  With  them  there  swept 
over  her  a  longing  for  her  mother.  She  had  hardly  realised 
until  now  what  it  meant,  that  her  mother  was  so  near.  Nigel 
had  stood  between  her  and  its  fulness;  Hugh  gave  it  her  again. 
Her  heart  beat  fast  and  she  trembled  with  impatience. 

The  signal  went  down.  There  was  a  slight  movement  on 
the  platform.  Porters  began  to  collect  and  people  stood  at 
attention.  Hugh  drew  himself  up,  pulled  down  his  coat  and 
tried  to  flatten  his  bulging  pockets.  The  action  recalled 
Daphne  to  her  lost  sense  of  the  ordinary. 


146  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

"You've  never  congratulated  me,  Hugh,"  she  said.  He 
looked  down  at  her;  his  eyes  full  of  a  deep  kindness. 

"I  have  congratulated  Nigel,  though,"  he  smiled. 

"Ah!  I  see;  you  know  him  better." 

"Yes."  Hugh  accepted  it;  but  he  still  smiled,  and  Daphne 
was  not  sure  that  she  understood  his  smile. 

A  loud  shrieking  heralded  and  accompanied  the  train,  which, 
slowly  gliding  in  along  the  curve,  almost  immediately  broke 
out  into  a  crowd  of  people  and  bags.  At  once  the  platform, 
which  had  for  so  long  been  given  over  to  bored  and  weary 
waiting,  became  an  animated  and  surging  mass,  as  from  the 
open  doors  of  the  carriages  people  swarmed  out,  appearing  en- 
larged to  twice  their  real  number  by  the  superabundance  of 
their  baggage  and  the  preponderance  among  them  of  bustling 
ladies  in  flowing  cloaks  and  flying  scarves.  None  of  these  was 
Mrs.  Leonard.  Daphne  smiled  a  little  as  she  watched  them 
pouring  out  like  ants  from  a  hive,  and  thought  how  unlike  to 
any  of  them  she  was. 

"There  she  is,"  cried  Hugh  Infield,  moving  quickly  forward; 
seeing  before  Daphne  did  the  one  unmistakable  figure,  neat 
and  fresh  in  her  dark  blue  silk  dress  and  little  hat  with  flowing 
veil,  and  with  that  curious  accent  of  distinction,  impossible  to 
attach  to  any  particular  item  of  her  appearance,  that  made 
Mrs.  Leonard  not  American,  not  French,  not  English,  but 
simply  herself.  She  saw  them,  and  the  next  moment  Daphne 
was  holding  both  her  hands  and  realising  with  exquisite  happi- 
ness all  the  difference  between  her  most  vivid  imagination  of  her 
mother's  nearness  and  the  fact.  For  as  Mrs.  Leonard's  eyes 
caressed  her  she  felt  that  if  she  had  been  before  as  happy  as 
she  had  thought  possible,  she  now  leaped  to  a  stage  beyond. 
In  those  eyes  there  was  no  criticism,  no  question,  no  suspension 
of  judgment.  She  knew,  she  understood  everything,  and  her 
knowledge  and  understanding  were  like  a  benison  that  con- 
secrated and  sealed.  A  mist  swam  before  Daphne's  eyes, 
but  it  was  a  mist  of  happiness.  She  did  not  hear  Mrs.  Leonard's 
greeting  to  Hugh;  but  the  next  moment  she  and  her  mother 
were  walking  down  the  platform  together,  while  he  had  dis- 
appeared, presumably  with  a  porter  in  search  of  luggage. 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  147 

Daphne  moved  along  vaguely.  The  station,  the  bustling 
people,  the  heat  and  noise  and  hurry  of  the  scene  had  dis- 
appeared into  a  blur;  she  was  hardly  aware  of  them.  Somehow 
or  other  she  and  her  mother  were  seated  in  an  open  taxi,  boxes 
and  bags  were  piled  in  front,  and  Hugh  leaning  over  the  door 
talking  to  Mrs.  Leonard.  In  another  minute  he  stepped  aside; 
they  were  off. 

Mrs.  Leonard  leaned  back,  her  daughter's  hand  in  hers. 
She  said  nothing,  but  there  was  no  need  of  words.  That, 
Daphne  felt,  was  what  she  was;  that  was  what  her  return  meant. 
All  the  little  fussy  tiresome  things,  which  for  other  people,  with 
other  people,  rose  up  and  blotted  out  everything  else,  vanished 
away.  Her  mere  presence  diffused  an  atmosphere  in  which 
they  fell  into  place.  Everything,  with  her,  always  "went"; 
there  was  always  time;  time  to  be  happy,  time  to  care,  time  to 
see.  The  taxi  had  entered  the  Park  and  was  moving  slowly. 
On  the  seats  people  were  sitting.  Behind  them  the  trees 
waved,  clad  in  their  June  glory  of  abundant  but  not  yet  weary 
leafage.  The  rhododendrons  made  a  blaze  of  extravagant 
colour  against  the  green  of  the  grass.  The  sun,  low  in  the 
west,  cast  over  the  whole  scene  an  enchanted  glow  as  of  a 
dream  picture.  Daphne  gave  a  deep,  contented  sigh. 

"Oh,  mother,"  she  breathed,  "I  am  too  unutterably  happy! 
...  I  understand  now  what  you  used  to  say  about  religion; 
about  the  instinct  to  worship.  I  feel  so  profoundly  grateful 
— to  Something.  I  don't  know  how  to  express  it,  but  you  under- 
stand." 

Mrs.  Leonard  only  held  her  hand  in  hers,  but  Daphne  knew 
that  she  did,  indeed,  understand,  and  relapsed  into  happy 
silence  until  they  reached  the  flat. 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

IT  was  not  going  to  last  well,  the  rose  tree.  Glowing  in  the 
hot  sunlight  that  steeped  the  empty  room  it  shone  resplen- 
dent when  Nigel  arrived  next  day  at  the  flat  for  lunch,  but 
several  of  the  flowers  were,  he  observed,  already  faded,  and  on 
the  matting  lay  a  little  heap  of  petals,  blown  off  by  the  soft 
breeze  that  stirred  the  curtains  and  cooled  the  warm  air  within. 
The  strong  sun  had  been  too  much  for  it.  It  was  a  pity. 

Nigel  turned  from  the  rose  tree  and  glanced  quickly  round. 
Daphne  had  been  right;  the  room  was  alive,  as  it  had  not  been 
yesterday.  The  bureau  was  heaped  with  papers,  foreign  papers 
mostly,  by  their  look.  A  large  photograph  leaned  against  the 
wall  on  top  of  it.  Nigel  inspected  the  signature  and  made  out 
that  it  was  a  portrait  of  Jaures.  There  were  heaps  of  books, 
again  many  of  them  foreign,  in  pale  yellow,  blue  and  orange 
paper  covers,  lying  on  the  little  tables;  and  a  spectacle-case  that 
he  remembered  well.  But  the  air  of  life  the  room  now  had  was 
not  lodged  in  any  of  these  things.  It  was  something  more 
subtle  and  pervading,  that  spoke  not  from  the  mere  presence 
of  the  objects,  but  from  the  way  in  which  they  were  placed. 
They  were  not  there  to  be  seen;  they  were  indispensable  ad- 
juncts of  the  life  of  some  one  very  much  alive. 

Nigel  turned  away  from  them  all  and  stood  at  the  window, 
looking,  through  the  softening  muslin  within  the  holland  cur- 
tains, down  on  the  green  trees  of  Kensington  Gardens  and  the 
roofs  of  York  House.  The  windows  were  all  open,  and  from 
not  far  off  the  noise  of  the  High  Street  rose,  the  incessant  noise 
of  London.  Nigel  looked  down  and  listened;  he  felt,  dimly, 
an  antithesis  between  that  noise  and  the  influences  of  the  room; 

148 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  149 

and  those  influences  he  wanted,  consciously,  to  resist.  For  they 
brought  back  the  sensations  he  had  had  at  Montevarchi  of  a 
personality,  stronger  than  his  own,  subduing  and  compelling, 
and  he  did  not  want  those  sensations.  If  he  were  to  meet  and 
perhaps  resist  Mrs.  Leonard  he  must  be  himself. 

But  as  he  waited  he  felt  almost  afraid.  Never,  in  all  his 
thoughts  of  Montevarchi  had  he  faced  the  question — What 
impression  had  he  made  on  Mrs.  Leonard,  what  did  she  think 
of  him?  Now,  however,  he  was  going  to  know,  and  he  would 
infinitely  rather  not  have  known.  If,  as  was  not  inconceivable, 
she  opposed  his  engagement  to  Daphne,  there  would  be  diffi- 
culties, unpleasantnesses,  stress;  things  he  did  not  want, 
especially  not  now,  in  the  midst  of  his  happiness.  That  Daphne 
would  give  way  to  her  mother's  opposition,  he  did  not  imagine. 
Of  her  he  felt  sure.  But  it  must  distress  her,  and  might  dim 
the  lustre  of  her  faith  in  him.  For  Mrs.  Leonard's  opposition 
would  not,  he  felt  certain,  be  a  blank  negative;  she  was  not 
like  that.  It  would  be  reasonable,  based  upon  a  theory  and  on 
facts  (as  she  saw  them)  that  he  would  have  to  meet.  It  would 
involve  explanations  to  Daphne;  and  the  glory  of  their  present 
relation,  in  which  he  had  to  explain  nothing,  in  which  she  ac- 
cepted him  absolutely,  as  he  did  her,  would  be  gone. 

The  door  behind  him  opened.  Nigel  turned  quickly,  but 
it  was  neither  Mrs.  Leonard  nor  Daphne.  A  short,  thick-set 
young  man  came  in,  who  looked  in  his  neat  clothes  and  excessive 
cuffs  like  a  shop-assistant,  but  that  his  bristling  black  hair,  cut 
en  brosse,  gave  him  a  foreign  flavour,  carried  out  when  he  clicked 
his  heels  together  and  made  Nigel  a  polite  salutation.  Nigel 
returned  it  distantly  and  went  back  to  his  window.  What  on 
earth  was  this  strange  creature  doing  here,  to-day  of  all  days? 
He  could  not,  he  found,  resume  his  thoughts:  something  about 
the  young  man  held  his  attention  unwillingly.  He  had  sat 
down  on  a  small  chair  by  one  of  the  tables  and  remained  so, 
quite  still  but  for  his  eyes,  which  travelled  rapidly  over  the  room 
until  they  rested  on  the  portrait  of  Jaures;  on  it  they  remained 
fixed  in  a  stare  of  strange  intensity.  Those  fixed  eyes  worried 
Nigel;  he  found  more  satisfaction  in  inspecting  the  stranger's 
boots;  very  ill-made,  ugly  boots  they  were,  such  as  no  English- 


150  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

man  would  have  worn,  not  even  a  workman.  He  felt  a  con- 
tempt for  the  man  who  wore  such  boots.  The  eyes,  on  the 
other  hand,  troubled  him;  they  were  incomprehensible  and  some- 
how not  to  be  contemned. 

Again  the  door  opened,  and  this  time  it  really  was  Mrs. 
Leonard.  Nigel's  instant  impression  was  that  she  was  older 
than  she  had  been  at  Montevarchi;  but  that  disappeared  when 
she  smiled.  When  she  smiled  he  had  no  impression  but  of  her 
overwhelming  charm.  For  her  smile  was  not  the  timid,  fugitive 
thing  that  lit  her  daughter's  face  and  was  gone  as  quickly  as  it 
came;  it  was  slow,  deep,  lasting.  She  smiled  in  one's  memory 
long  after  she  had  ceased  to  do  so  in  actual  fact.  Her  mouth — 
set  in  a  rather  straight  line — was  made  to  smile;  the  straight 
line  represented  what  life  had  made  her  do;  it  stood  for  all  her 
resistance,  her  struggle;  nature  had  made  those  deeply  indented 
lips  to  curve,  and  when  they  curved,  as  now,  lifting  to  show  her 
large  regular  teeth,  Nigel  felt  his  fears  absurd,  childish.  To 
have  been  afraid  of  such  a  woman,  in  the  sense  in  which  he  had, 
he  could  now  a<lmit  it,  been  afraid,  was  grotesque.  He  almost 
blushed  for  the  incongruous  vulgarity  of  it.  Mrs.  Leonard 
was  incapable  of  behaving  in  the  way  he  had  seen  her  doing  in 
his  fear.  Nothing  in  her  manner  suggested  that  she  recalled 
anything  from  Montevarchi  beyond  some  interesting  discus- 
sions. He  began  to  believe  that  his  memory  had  played  him 
false;  that  he  had  not  behaved  so  stupidly;  that  it  was  only  in 
his  own  mind  that  he  had  looked  like  a  craven  and  a 
coxcomb. 

He  had  time  for  these  reflections,  for,  after  her  smile  and 
quick  handshake,  Mrs.  Leonard  had  turned  to  the  singular 
young  man,  and  it  was  to  him,  not  to  Nigel,  that  she  gave  her 
attention.  He  instantly  poured  forth  a  flood  of  eager  unintelli- 
gibility — in  some  language  to  Nigel  unknown,  and  in  this  lan- 
guage Mrs.  Leonard  replied,  leaving  Nigel  to  stand  and  look 
at  them.  At  first  he  was  amused;  but  as  they  continued,  he 
began  to  be  annoyed.  Even  a  scene  of  painful  argument,  of 
passionate  pleading  on  his  part,  such  as  he  had  foreseen  when 
putting  his  prospects  at  their  worst,  would  really  have  been  more 
tolerable  than  to  find  himself  thus  relegated  by  the  mother  of 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  151 

his  fiancee,  meeting  him  for  the  first  time  in  that  relation,  to 
the  position  of  a  superfluous  auditor. 

The  entrance  of  Daphne,  charming  in  a  white  frock  which, 
Nigel  guessed,  had  come  from  Paris  in  her  mother's  trunk, 
brought  a  happy  restoration  of  importance.  She  had  no  eyes 
for  the  bristling  young  man,  whose  name,  a  mere  collection  of 
cacophonous  consonants,  Nigel  made  no  attempt  to  grasp.  Her 
eyes  were  all  for  him,  and  her  eyes  carried  her  mother's  with 
them.  Mrs.  Leonard  might  continue  to  listen  to  the  young 
alien;  she  looked  at  her  daughter.  She  must  see  Nigel  now  clad 
in  the  light  cast  upon  him  from  the  eyes  of  Daphne;  it  was  un- 
necessary to  go  beyond  that. 

For  a  moment  Daphne  did  not  more  than  look.  They 
stood  together  in  the  window  by  the  rose  tree  while  she  absently 
picked  off  the  faded  flowerets. 

"  Well, "  said  Nigel  at  last.     "  Is  it  all  right?  " 

Daphne  glanced  round. 

"Oh,  yes,  mother  thinks  it  looks  charming. " 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  the  room;  I  meant  me." 

Daphne  laughed. 

"Oh,  yes — But,  of  course!"  No  doubt  had  apparently 
even  visited  her.  This  was  all  right  as  far  as  she  went;  but 
Nigel  wanted  something  different,  something  for  which  he  had 
to  wait. 

Lunch  was  spoiled  for  Nigel  by  his  imperfect  knowledge  of 
French;  for  the  black-haired  young  man,  who  appeared  to  be  a 
Russian,  and  a  Russian  for  Mrs.  Leonard  bursting  with  interest, 
poured  forth  in  that  language  a  stream  of  talk,  the  purport  of 
a  large  part  of  which  was  lost  upon  Nigel.  To  none  of  it  could 
he  make  any  adequate  reply.  He  felt  awkward  and  uncom- 
fortable; rare  sensations  with  him,  but  none  the  less  disagreeable; 
and  was  consequently  critical.  Mrs.  Leonard  was  again  show- 
ing the  side  of  herself  he  had  found  tiresome  at  Montevarchi; 
her  incessant  preoccupation  with  ideas,  and  especially  with 
political  ideas.  The  young  Russian  was,  of  course,  a  Socialist. 
Nigel  found  Socialism  tiresome  enough  as  a  theory — but  he 
had  at  least  hoped  that  with  Mrs.  Leonard,  as  with  so  many  of 
his  other  friends,  it  would  remain  at  that;  a  subject  to  be  dis- 


152  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

cussed  when  better  themes  failed,  or  Mallard  Floss,  that  man  of 
few  subjects,  turned  up.  Daphne's  earnest  attempts  at  prac- 
tical applications  had  only  amused  him;  he  could  not  take 
seriously  her  refusal  to  go  in  a  taxi  or  her  rejection  of  any  form 
of  jewellery  as  a  gift  from  him;  these  things  were  the  charming 
exaggerations  of  youth,  that  would  be  cast  off  as  the  normal 
course  of  things  brought  with  it  a  conviction  of  their  irrelevance. 
Daphne's  feeling  that  every  trifling  action  was  significant  was 
too  much  part  of  her,  of  a  vitality  which  lived  each  moment  at 
full  pressure,  to  be  criticised  in  application  in  the  light  of  reason. 
But  Mrs.  Leonard's  practical  applications  were  different;  likely 
to  be  on  a  much  larger  scale  and  far  more  vexing.  The  presence 
of  Krutznecheff  was  a  case  in  point.  Why  was  he  there  at  all, 
to-day  of  all  days? 

Foreigners  were  always  rather  disagreeable  even  when  they 
spoke  English.  That  Krutznecheff's  French  was  a  concession 
to  him  exasperated  Nigel.  He  did  not  care  what  Russia  was 
doing  or  thinking.  Rasputin  was  only  a  name  to  him  and 
scenes  in  the  Duma — Krutznecheff  apparently  was,  or  had  been, 
a  Social  Democratic  member  of  the  Duma,  and  also  a  journalist 
of  some  kind — extremely  boring.  He  never  could  remember  the 
difference  between  Octobrists  and  Decembrists  or  whether  the 
Cadets  belonged  to  the  Right  or  to  the  Left.  But  Mrs.  Leonard 
seemed  actually  excited  when  the  young  man  produced  from 
his  pocket  a  grubby  paper  covered  with  hieroglyphics,  seized 
upon  it  and  read  it  out  in  a  thrilling  voice. 

"But  this  is  extraordinary.  Listen,  Mr.  Strode.  It's  an 
appeal  issued  by  the  Galician  Polish  leaders  to  the  Russian  Poles 
and  Jews  to  liberate  the  ancient  Tzardom  of  Poland  from  Rus- 
sian domination  in  the  event  of  a  war  between  Russia  and 
Germany  or  Austria." 

"Yes,"  said  the  young  man.  " Purishkevitch  read  that 
out  in  the  Duma;  he  talked  of  revolution,  seamen's  strikes, 
Navy  mutiny." 

"Has  the  big  strike  on  now  anything  to  do  with  that?" 
asked  Mrs.  Leonard. 

The  young  man  shook  his  head. 

"Things  are  very  bad,"  he  said.     "You  see,  the  Minister 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  153 

of  the  Interior  was  censured  by  185  votes  to  95.  People  won't 
go  on  standing  these  things,  even  in  Russia." 

"Then  what  will  happen?"  Mrs.  Leonard  leaned  forward, 
her  chin  supported  by  her  hands,  her  eyes  bright  with  appre- 
hension. All  this  was  real  to  her,  it  seemed. 

The  ugly  young  man  waved  a  podgy  hand,  and  poured  forth 
a  stream  of  words,  mostly,  so  far  as  Nigel  could  gather,  about 
Revolutionary  movements. 

"Then  the  great  card  for  the  Right  would  be  a  war?"  said 
Mrs.  Leonard. 

He  nodded. 

"It's  awful.  .  .  .  Mr.  Strode,  you  know  about  these  things. 
Tell  me  why  nothing  gets  into  the  papers  here.  Is  it  true  that 
The  Times  has  been  bought?" 

"By  the  Russian  Government?"  cried  Daphne  with  round 
eyes. 

Mrs.  Leonard  nodded.  "What  I  want  to  know  is — you  see, 
I've  been  out  of  London  a  long  time,  and  only  recently  really  taken 
up  the  London  papers  again — what  is  behind  all  this  ?  They  keep 
us  in  the  dark  about  Russia  and  talk  against  Germany  inces- 
santly. You  saw  what  Grey  said  the  other  day,  Mr.  Strode,  at 
the  Press  dinner?" 

Nigel  shook  his  head.  He  had  a  hazy  recollection  of  the 
aspect  of  the  ticket  on  his  mantelpiece;  but  it  had  been  overlaid 
by  a  card  for  a  party  to  which  he  was  going,  that  night,  with 
Daphne,  and  had  found  its  way  into  the  waste-paper  basket. 

"Well,  if  you  had,  you'd  know  how  wrong  it  was  of  you  to 
stay  away.  That  sounds  Irish — but,  seriously,  I  mean  it." 
She  smiled  a  little,  but  her  eyes  were  grave.  Nigel,  looking 
up  to  meet  them,  had  to  accept  the  strange  truth  that  all  this 
dull,  dead  stuff  in  which  they  had  been  submerged  all  lunch- 
time  was  to  her  evidently  of  supreme  interest.  On  each  of  her 
pale  cheeks  there  was  a  faint  spot  of  colour  and  under  her  drawn- 
down  brows  her  eyes  shone.  He  wished  he  had  been  reading 
Matheson,  or  even  talking  to  Infield.  Infield  despised  politics, 
or  said  he  did,  but  he  had  extraordinary  reserves  of  knowledge, 
and  his  desk  was  generally  cluttered  up  with  queer  foreign  news- 
papers, unsightly  to  the  eye. 


154  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

Mrs.  Leonard  meantime  went  on— 

"Grey  said,  you  see,  that  it  was  practically  in  the  power  of 
the  Press  to  decide  what  was  and  what  was  not  possible  for  a 
foreign  minister. " 

"In  England?"  Nigel  queried. 

"Yes,  and  in  Germany." 

"Not  Russia, "  Krutznecheff  threw  in. 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Leonard.     "And  perhaps  not  in  France." 

Nigel  made  an  effort. 

"But  is  it  true?  After  all,  the  Press  can  only  approve  or 
disapprove  what  the  Foreign  Office  has  done.  They're  never 
told  till  it  is  done. " 

Mrs.  Leonard  nodded.  "Yes.  But  they  can  force  the  ad- 
mission that  action  has  or  has  not  been  taken.  For  instance, 
it's  admitted  that  we're  not  allied  to  France.  You  shake  your 
head,  M.  Krutznecheff?" 

"  Because  in  Russia  we  are  sure  that  England  is  with  France. 
And  in  Germany  they  are  sure. " 

"The  German  Socialists  think  there  is  an  alliance?" 

The  Russian  nodded. 

"When  your  king  went  to  Paris,  they  were  sure  of  it. " 

At  last  M.  Krutznecheff  departed — to  return  to  supper. 
Mrs.  Leonard  leaned  back  upon  her  sofa,  cigarette  in  hand. 
Her  eyes,  tired  now  that  the  light  had  died  out  of  them,  were 
far  away.  For  a  few  moments  she  said  nothing.  Daphne 
moved  from  the  settee  on  which  she  had  been  beside  Nigel  and, 
dropping  on  a  footstool  by  her  mother's  side,  took  her  hand 
in  hers  gently  and  leaned  her  head  against  her  knee. 

Mrs.  Leonard  looked  up  with  a  sigh. 

"Sometimes,  you  know,"  she  said  slowly,  "one  feels  des- 
perately small  and  weak,  pitted  against  these  great  forces.  .  .  . 
Every  year  we  vote  against  armies  in  every  country;  we  meet 
as  brothers — but  what  a  handful  we  are. " 

"Ah,  but,  mother,"  cried  Daphne,  "we've  got  a  real  faith 
on  our  side,  something  big  to  work  towards.  ..." 

Mrs.  Leonard  looked  down  and  gradually  her  face  cleared. 

"Yes,  Daphne.  I'm  wrong.  Look  at  that  young  man. 
Think  of  what  they  have  to  struggle  against  in  Russia.  It's 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  155 

splendid.  It  must  tell  in  the  end.  .  .  .  But  one's  so  in  the 
dark;  and  all  the  organisation  is  on  their  side.  .  .  .  And  there's 
your  Nigel — I  may,  mayn't  I,  now?" — she  looked  up  at  him 
with  her  smile  again — "thinking  all  this  is  just  tiresomeness — 
and  he  could  do  so  much  to  help  if  he  only  would. " 

"Could  I,  Mrs.  Leonard?"  cried  Nigel,  eagerly  leaning  for- 
ward and  meeting  her  eyes.  He  realised  as  he  did  so  that  he 
had  not  met  them  before.  They  said  so  many  things  that  for 
an  instant  he  could  only  stay  still  and  hold  himself.  For  he 
knew  that  his  sense  of  escape  was  illusory.  Mrs.  Leonard  was 
a  modern  woman,  a  clever  woman,  a  woman  of  amazing  charm, 
and  a  woman  of  perfect  manners.  She  gave  her  daughter  the 
freedom  she  wanted  for  all  the  world.  Daphne  had  chosen. 
She  allowed  her  choice.  She  would  make  no  scene,  offer  no 
opposition,  allow  them  no  opportunity  to  argue  or  explain. 
But  she  would  judge. 

Yet  even  while  he  felt  this  he  knew  that  it  was  superficial. 
Beyond  her  cleverness,  her  modernity,  her  ideas,  even  beyond 
her  charm,  lay  something  deeper;  out  of  which  they  all  grew. 
He  could  not  analyse  it,  but  out  of  her  deep  eyes  it  looked  at  him, 
the  extent  to  which  she  cared.  He  had  felt  it  before,  how  she 
loved  Daphne,  but  never  so  much  as  now.  She  cared  so  much 
that  she  could  not  resist,  could  not  protest,  could  not  allow 
protestation,  could  not  stand  for  an  instant  between  Daphne 
and  Daphne's  joy.  Not  for  an  instant.  Not  even  for  the 
second's  quivering  of  an  eyelid  in  which  Daphne  might  guess 
that  she  suffered  at  all.  She  did  suffer.  In  a  sudden  flash 
Nigel  seemed  to  see  it,  and  as  he  saw  her  pale  face  lit  by  that 
sacrificial  light  he  felt  for  her  an  emotion  that  while  it  lasted 
was  the  same  that  he  had  known  in  Italy  on  the  night  of  the 
thunderstorm. 

The  emotion  passed;  and  the  need  to  speak  remained  with 
the  impossibility  of  saying  anything  adequate. 

The  impossibility  faded;  for  Mrs.  Leonard  was  holding  out 
her  hand  to  him,  and  smiling,  a  smile  all  acceptance  which 
made  him  think  all  that  had  passed  through  his  mind  was  per- 
haps only  the  ridiculous  creation  of  his  own  heightened  fantasy, 
the  foolish  cob  web- weaving  of  a  man  in  love. 


156  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

"My  dear  Nigel,"  she  said,  as  he  took  her  hand,  "you  do 
everything  if  you  make  my  Daphne  happy.  .  .  .  You  can  save 
her  from  the  hard  knocks  that  bruise  young  enthusiasms;  from 
the  disillusionment  I  might  bring  her  with  my  Committees  and 
my  papers.  ...  I'm  up  to  my  eyes  in  wretched  practical 
detail;  but  you  and  she  are  at  the  beginning;  you  can  work 
at  the  ideas  with  the  strength  young  people  have  to  see  them 
new.  .  .  .  Daphne,  that  bit  from  Tolstoi  I  read  to  you  last 
night " 

"Oh,  yes,  mother,"  cried  Daphne,  lifting  her  head  from  her 
mother's  shoulder,  on  which  it  had  been  resting. 

"Bring  me  the  book,  dearest — it's  on  my  dressing-table." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Leonard,"  cried  Nigel  as  the  door  closed  behind 
her.  "I  can't  tell  you  what  I  feel."  Mrs.  Leonard  still  held 
his  hand.  She  pressed  it  gently  with  her  long  slim  fingers. 

"No,  dear  Nigel.  If  you  could,  I  should  be  very  unhappy. 
.  .  .  Daphne  loves  you.  That's  the  beginning  and  the  end 
for  me." 

"And  you  know  I  adore  her?" 

Mrs.  Leonard  released  her  hand. 

"She  knows  it  ...  which  is  much  more  important." 

"What  is  much  more  important?"  Daphne  reappeared 
with  the  red-covered  book  in  her  hand.  Mrs.  Leonard  took 
the  book  without  answering. 

"What  I  wanted  to  read  to  you  was  only  a  sentence  in  a 
letter  Tolstoi  wrote  his  son  when  on  the  point  of  marriage. 
Listen — 'All  this  because  the  idea  shared  by  many,  that  life 
is  a  vale  of  tears,  is  just  as  false  as  the  idea,  shared  by  the  great 
majority,  the  idea  to  which  youth  and  health  and  riches  incline 
you,  that  life  is  a  place  of  entertainment.  Life  is  a  place  of 
service,  and  in  that  service  one  has  to  suffer  at  times  a  great 
deal  that  is  hard  to  bear,  but  more  often  to  experience  a  great 
deal  of  joy.  But  that  joy  can  only  be  real  if  people  look  upon 
their  life  as  a  service,  and  have  a  definite  object  in  life  outside 
themselves  and  their  personal  happiness. ' ': 

"That's  wonderful,"  said  Nigel. 

Mrs.  Leonard  rose  from  her  couch  and  stood  looking  at  the 
two  as  they  stood  together.  She  said  nothing,  but  her  eyes 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  157 

rested  on  them  with  a  searching  tenderness.  After  a  moment's 
pause  she  said — 

"  Go  out  in  the  sun,  dear  children — or  stay  here.  I  am  going 
out — no,  Daphne,  you're  not  coming  with  me.  I've  had  you 
all  morning,  and  Nigel  is  busy  at  night,  I  expect?  Come  in  to 
dinner,  breakfast,  lunch,  tea,  Nigel — your  place  will  always  be 
laid." 

She  had  gone  from  the  room  while  they  stood  together. 

Nigel  put  his  arms  round  Daphne. 

"Oh,  Daphne,"  he  cried,  "she  is  wonderful!" 

Daphne  looked  up  into  his  face  with  dim  eyes. 

"Mother?  Yes.  I  knew  you'd  love  her.  And  she,  you. 
.  .  .  Oh,  Nigel,  I  am  so  happy!" 

He  held  her  for  a  moment;  then,  letting  her  go,  walked  to  the 
window  and  once  or  twice  up  and  down  the  room,  as  though 
stretching  himself  to  get  rid  of  a  sense  of  tension  that  oppressed. 

"Let's  go  out,  Daphne,  dear,"  he  cried.  "It's  a  day  to  be 
ever  so  gay,  isn't  it?" 

"But  haven't  you  been  happy?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  cried.  "But  I  don't  want  to  be  serious  any 
longer.  Put  on  your  hat  and  let's  go  out. " 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

IT  was  the  last  night  of  the  Russian  opera  season,  and  to  hear 
Chaliapine  in  Boris  Gudunov  Drury  Lane  was  crowded,  as 
the  reports  next  morning  put  it,  "from  floor  to  ceiling  with 
a  brilliant  throng."  When  the  curtain  fell  on  the  second  act 
this  throng  trooped  out  in  search  of  air,  for  the  heat  was  op- 
pressive under  the  low-roofed  balconies,  and  of  refreshment,  as 
well  as  for  the  discovery  of  friends  seated  in  other  parts.  For 
"every  one"  was  there:  every  one  in  the  world  that  goes  to 
things  and  makes  things  go  in  London.  Had  Mrs.  Leonard  been 
disposed  to  pass  social  London  under  review,  and  mark  the 
changes  that  had  come  over  its  expressive  face  in  her  absence, 
she  could  hardly  have  chosen  a  better  moment.  But  her 
thoughts  were  directed  to  a  more  limited  field.  As  the  other 
members  of  her  own  party  wandered  out  into  the  foyer  she 
watched  them  and  pondered  over  them,  forgetful  of  the  am- 
bassadors and  cabinet  ministers,  academicians,  bishops,  intel- 
lectuals major  and  minor,  ladies  great  and  small,  whose  presence 
constituted  the  brilliance  of  the  scene.  She  liked  them,  these 
friends  of  Daphne's,  though  it  sometimes  seemed  to  her  a  little 
odd  that  they  should  be  her  friends.  That  was  how  one  felt 
the  passage  of  time,  though :  the  pattern  into  which  the  younger 
generation  fitted  itself  was  inevitably  different  from  that  of  the 
older,  and  not  to  be  dismissed  because  some  colours  appeared 
to  be  lacking,  or  the  general  effect  showed  as  crude.  Yet,  as 
she  thought  vaguely  of  her  own  contemporaries,  Mrs.  Leonard 
wondered.  There  did  seem  to  her  to  be  something  which  these 
young  people,  pleasant,  glib,  clever,  indifferent,  had  not  got. 
As  she  tried  to  understand  them,  to  see  their  type,  the  common 

158 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  159 

note  struck  again  and  again  was  not  so  much  what  they  had  as 
what  they  had  not.  And  it  applied  to  them  all,  for  one  of  the 
surprises  about  them  was  their  essential  similarity,  a  similarity 
that  covered  wide  surface  differences  over  a  range  bigger  than  that 
represented  by  the  half-dozen  now  beneath  her  observation. 

Myrtle  Toller  passed  out  first.  As  she  moved  slowly  up 
the  gangway,  looking  round  her,  it  was  difficult  to  imagine  cir- 
cumstances in  which  she  could  appear  diffident  or  at  a  loss. 
There  was  no  situation  she  was  not  prepared  to  meet,  none 
she  was  not  ready  to  discuss.  Myrtle  moved  gracefully,  and 
Mrs.  Leonard  approved  of  the  appreciation  of  her  own  values 
shown  in  her  dress — a  strong  orange  in  colour  but  definitely 
smart  in  cut.  Myrtle  knew  better  than  to  attempt  Post- 
Impressionist  sloppiness;  her  hair  was  perfectly  done.  And 
yet  for  all  her  vivid  colouring  Mrs.  Leonard  did  not  feel  her  as 
a  vivid  person.  She  wanted  to  be  vivid,  but  that  was  a  very 
different  thing.  Indeed,  her  most  striking  quality  was  her  igno- 
rance. Every  door  had  been  opened  to  her  by  her  father's  name, 
position,  income,  but  she  had  got  into  nothing.  There  was  no 
surface  she  had  not  skimmed,  hardly  any  she  had  penetrated. 
This  applied  equally  to  Gertrude  Fenner,  who  "could  tear  the 
heart  out  of  any  book  in  five  minutes";  to  Ned  Coventry,  who 
had  been  "everywhere " ;  to  Mallard  Floss,  who  knew  everything 
— indeed,  to  all  of  them.  They  were  prodigiously  intelligent 
and  receptive — Mrs.  Leonard  reviewed  with  a  smile  the  limited 
contents  of  her  own  mind  before  her  marriage — and  yet,  as 
individuals,  thin.  The  more  they  all  knew,  the  less  differ- 
entiated did  they  seem.  The  social  apparatus  they  carried 
about  was  so  complex  that  it  occupied  them  exclusively.  They 
were  like  perpetual  week-enders,  always  packing  their  bags 
tight  with  the  latest  ideas  and  then  repacking  with  a  new  set; 
and  to  keep  up  with  ideas  seemed  as  devastating  as  to  keep  up 
with  fashions.  Seen  thus,  however,  Daphne  was  not  one  of 
them,  though  they  all  liked  her.  For  she  was  narrow  where 
they  were  diffused,  slow  where  they  were  quick,  and  deep  where 
they  were  shallow. 

They  had  all  moved  along  the  passage  behind,  and  soon 
reappeared  at  the  extreme  left,  where  they  stood  leaning  over 


160  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

the  rail  and  looking  down  into  the  body  of  the  theatre,  surveying 
the  right-hand  boxes,  hitherto  concealed,  talking  and  laughing 
gaily.  The  party  had  rearranged  itself.  Nigel  and  Daphne 
were  now  together  at  the  extreme  end;  then  Myrtle,  Ned 
Coventry,  Mallard  Floss,  Chris  Bampton,  Gertrude  Fenner  and, 
nearest  to  Mrs.  Leonard,  Gervase  O'Connor.  They  were  all 
quite  out  of  hearing  and  quite  oblivious  of  her.  She  could  look 
at  them  unobserved.  Her  eyes  travelled  rapidly  along  the  row 
of  faces,  pausing  on  that  of  Gervase.  A  little  sigh  rose  as  she 
looked  at  him.  Poor  Gervase.  She  understood  only  too  well 
why  he  was  there,  what  compelled  him  to  flutter  like  a  moth 
round  the  candle  that  burned  his  wings.  He  might  laugh 
loudly  and  talk  excitedly  to  Gertrude  Fenner  and  Chris  Bamp- 
ton—Chris  was  looking  actually  pretty  in  pale  blue,  whereas 
the  yellows  and  browns  she  generally  affected  made  her  faded 
and  insignificant — Mrs.  Leonard  knew  that  his  whole  being 
was  simply  an  agonised  consciousness  of  Daphne,  at  whom  he 
never  looked,  to  whom  he  had,  throughout  the  evening,  not 
spoken.  The  first  time  she  met  Gervase  Mrs.  Leonard  had 
divined  his  feeling,  and  her  heart  had  gone  out  to  him.  None 
of  the  others  could  feel  like  that:  that  he  could  and  did,  set 
him  apart.  Underneath  his  flippancy  there  lay  this  almost 
terrifying  seriousness  which  gave  his  nonsense,  more  extravagant 
than  any  one's,  an  edge  theirs  never  had.  Gervase  could  laugh 
because  he  could  cry,  and  his  laughter  very  often  brought 
dreadful  echoes  after  it.  They  all  said,  on  occasion,  things  that 
almost  shocked  Mrs.  Leonard:  shocked  her  till  she  remembered 
that  the  words  they  used  were  only  counters;  but  Gervase 
really  shocked  her,  because  his  rang  true. 

No  one  would  have  greeted  with  such  derision  as  Gervase 
himself  any  suggestion  that  he  belonged  to  the  same  order  as 
Krutznecheff ;  but  it  was  true.  He  did,  and  so,  in  the  end,  did 
Daphne.  Life  to  him  was  frightfully  difficult,  to  the  others  it 
was  easy. 

It  was  easy  to  Nigel  Strode.  That  ease  was  the  secret  of  his 
charm,  that  charm  which  Mrs.  Leonard  felt,  which  every  one 
felt.  It  was  because  he  was  so  easy,  of  course,  that  Hugh  In- 
field, who  had  always  declared  he  hated  charming  people,  chose 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  161 

to  live  with  him.  Hugh  might  pretend  not  to  see  his  charm,  but 
as  Mrs.  Leonard  looked  at  Nigel  she  wondered  whether  Hugh 
did  not  deceive  himself.  She  had  known  that  happen  before. 
If  he  were  really  indifferent  to  Nigel's  appearance  he  was  very 
rare.  For  Nigel's  physical  grace,  his  tall  slenderness,  in  which 
there  was  nothing  effeminate,  only  the  fineness  of  the  athlete, 
the  poise  of  his  fair  head,  with  its  thick  straight  golden  hair, 
his  complexion  clear  and  brown  as  that  of  a  sunburnt  child, 
his  candid  childlike  eyes — counted  tremendously  in  his  charm. 
The  convention  which  assumed  that  looks  mattered  not  at  all, 
counted  for  nothing  in  the  case  of  a  man,  had  always  seemed 
absurd  to  Mrs.  Leonard.  They  counted  as  much  as  in  the  case 
of  a  woman.  They  gave  their  possessor  the  grace  of  unselfcon- 
sciousness,  they  made  every  one  else  look  and  look  again  and 
remember.  People  who  met  Nigel  Strode  always  asked  who  he 
was  and  always  knew  him  when  they  met  again.  No  one  could 
look  at  Ned  Coventry  or  Mallard  Floss  while  Nigel  was  there, 
no  young  woman  probably  at  Gervase  O'Connor.  His  awk- 
wardness might  charm  Mrs.  Leonard,  to  whom  awkwardness  in 
the  young  promised  grace  in  maturity,  but  she  knew  that 
experience  had  burnt  into  her  an  unnatural  dread  of  physical 
charm  in  men.  Jimmy's  awkwardness  could  not  charm  Daphne, 
awkward  herself  and  hating  her  own  awkwardness.  To  her 
the  finished  grace  of  Nigel  was  irresistible,  and  Mrs.  Leonard 
understood  why  Daphne  had  told  her  that  the  word  that 
seemed  to  her  best  to  describe  the  man  she  loved  was  "ex- 
quisite. "  It  was  a  word  that  terrified  her  mother. 

She  had  not  forgotten  Montevarchi.  She  had  understood 
what  had  happened.  But  she  was  forty-two.  It  had  happened 
before.  She  knew  that  while  nearly  every  man  in  love  protests 
that  what  his  soul  yearns  for  is  that  some  one  should  under- 
stand him,  the  eyes  that  understand  are  the  eyes  of  Medusa, 
that  turn  to  stone  the  passionate  gaze  uplifted  to  them.  One 
man  in  a  thousand  can  bear  to  be  understood,  and  then  not  by 
the  woman  he  loves.  But  Daphne  did  not  understand.  So 
her  demands  on  Nigel  might,  in  their  very  unconsciousness,  call 
out  what  the  conscious  demands  of  a  woman  who  knew  her  way 
in  life  would  never  do.  Her  blind  faith  might  kindle  into  life 


162  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

the  beauty  she  believed  in.  Nigel  was  extremely  intelligent. 
He  knew  the  existence  of  things,  of  feelings,  that  he  did  not  find 
in  himself,  and  he  was  certainly  in  love.  The  thread  was  in  his 
hand,  if  he  could  only  hold  it. 

At  Daphne,  beside  him,  Mrs.  Leonard  hardly  dared  to  look. 
For  Daphne's  joy  wrapped  her  in  a  shimmering  aura  which 
separated  her  from  all  the  world,  even  from  her  mother.  She 
was  as  tender  as  ever  and  more  considerate  about  little  things, 
but  she  was  withdrawn  into  a  region  in  which  she  had  no  need 
of  her:  oblivious,  exalted,  remote.  She  did  not  want  to  talk, 
she  could  not  really  care  about  anything  but  Nigel.  She 
accepted  her  mother's  preoccupation  with  public  affairs — a 
preoccupation  which  at  any  other  time  she  would  have  seen  to  be 
largely  fictitious — and  made  no  attempt  to  share  it  or  break 
in  upon  it.  Had  Mrs.  Leonard  gone  away,  Daphne,  she  be- 
lieved, would  hardly  have  noticed  it.  She  was  supremely 
unaware  of  her  own  silence,  but  her  silence,  for  her  mother, 
filled  the  flat.  Mrs.  Leonard  understood,  but  her  understand- 
ing made  her  tremble.  For  she  had  known  that  lyric  ecstasy — 
known  it  even  for  Colonel  Leonard.  Daphne  would  think  the 
comparison  blasphemous:  Mrs.  Leonard  smiled  to  herself  as 
she  thought  of  hazarding  it  to  her — but  her  own  honesty  faced 
it.  It  was  horrible  to  her  to  recall  the  baselessness  of  her  own 
joy  of  twenty  years  ago;  but  the  truth  was  the  thing  she  had 
learned  in  forty  years  of  life  to  look  at  unblenching.  It  had  been 
utterly  false,  utterly  unreal,  based  upon  nothing  in  her  husband 
that  corresponded  to  her  dream  of  him;  but  she  had  felt  it. 
She  had  faced  its  life  as  she  had  faced  its  death,  with  the  same 
refusal  to  sentimentalise  with  which  she  had  faced  her  husband's 
unfaithfulness.  It  was  her  refusal  to  sentimentalise,  her  insist- 
ence on  seeing,  that  had  most  outraged  Colonel  Leonard.  Long 
had  she  clung  to  the  belief  of  her  girlhood  that  the  quality  of 
love  authenticates  its  object;  but  Colonel  Leonard  had  refuted 
that  and  so  many  other  vain  idealisms.  She  could  not  remem- 
ber herself  and  hold  that  Daphne's  love  for  Nigel  proved  him 
anything  at  all.  But  it  was  unfair — she  smiled  at  herself — to 
assume  that  because  Nigel  was  charming  and  Daphne  loved  him 
he  must  resemble  Richard.  Daphne  was  older,  wiser,  stronger 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  163 

than  Aurelia  saw  herself  at  that  age,  and  there  was  nothing  in 
Nigel,  if  she  had  met  him  now  in  London  for  the  first  time,  to 
make  her  fear.  On  the  other  hand,  there  was  much  to  make  her 
hope.  Richard  Leonard  would  simply  have  laughed  had  she 
suggested  that  life  was  a  place  of  service;  Nigel  was  not  like 
that.  True,  her  hope  of  persuading  him  to  interest  in  the 
International — a  hope  born  of  her  belief  in  the  binding  force  of 
shared  ideals  and  work — had  failed.  Nigel  was  not  interested, 
and  he  had  no  desire,  at  present,  for  work,  no  time  for  ideals. 
And  he  had  drawn  Daphne  away  after  him.  The  big  world  out- 
side did  not  exist  for  them.  But  they  were  only  just  engaged; 
it  was  natural  enough.  If  the  effect  of  Nigel's  love  at  the  mo- 
ment was  to  reduce  Daphne,  ultimately  that  of  hers  might  be  to 
enlarge  him.  Daphne  would  come  back  to  the  big  world  out- 
side; happiness  would  only  make  her  more  sensitive  to  its  misery. 
They  would  come  back  hand  in  hand,  or  so  Mrs.  Leonard 
formulated  her  hope. 

Absorbed  in  these  thoughts  she  leaned  forward,  her  elbows 
resting  on  the  balcony,  her  chin  propped  in  her  hands.  So 
Hugh  Infield  found  her,  as  he  paused  at  the  gangway  before 
sitting  down  by  her  side.  Her  dark  eyes  travelled  over  the 
people  in  the  area;  but  he  knew  she  neither  saw  them  nor  was 
aware  of  him,  and  for  a  few  moments  he  stood  so,  looking  at 
her,  hardly  desiring  that  she  should  look  up.  She  was  beauti- 
ful, he  thought;  more  beautiful  than  her  daughter,  more  beauti- 
ful even  than  when  he  had  first  known  her,  nearly  sixteen  years 
ago.  The  beauty  of  youth  had  gone,  but  life  had  worn  her  face 
to  a  fineness  rarer  than  bloom.  The  shadows  under  her  eyes,  the 
little  lines  round  her  mouth,  did  not  distress  him,  though  their 
sadness  did.  As  a  man  he  might  grieve  over  the  marks  of  suf- 
fering, but  as  an  artist  he  could  only  admire  the  exquisite  finish 
to  which  the  mind  within  had  wrought  every  indication  of  the 
surface.  The  eager  mouth,  which  in  youth  had  been  held  open, 
ready  to  speak,  ready  to  smile,  was  closed  now  in  a  firm  line 
depressed  at  the  corners;  but  the  line  was  firm,  not  tight,  and 
the  depression  wore  no  hint  of  peevishness.  The  perfect  nose 
was  nature's,  but  the  mouth  had  the  beauty  of  character;  and 
the  eyes  were  clear  with  vision  and  deep  with  mystery.  They 


164  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

were  eyes  full  of  secrets  not  to  be  revealed  to  the  casual 
glance,  eyes  into  which  one  could  gaze,  not  baffled  by  the 
reflecting  surface,  but  looking  down,  down  into  unexplorable 
depth. 

Yet,  although  he  had  thought  he  wanted  always  to  look 
at  her,  never  to  have  her  look  at  him,  Hugh  knew  when  she 
did  at  last  raise  her  eyes  that  he  had  been  wrong,  for  her  sudden 
smile  was  one  of  the  things  he  could  never  get  used  to,  that 
never  failed  to  give  him  the  same  sense  of  sudden  thrilled  release 
that  the  sun  gave  when  it  parted  clouds -and  shone  out  warm 
and  blinding.  Even  across  the  thick  hot  atmosphere  of  the 
opera-house  he  felt  it. 

With  her  there  were  no  awkward  moments,  no  need  of 
fencing  or  pretence. 

"I  was  thinking  about  Nigel,"  she  said.  "Hugh,  tell  me 
about  him.  I  never  gathered  the  least  idea  of  him  from  your 
letters,  and  knowing  him  in  this  way,  as  Daphne's  fiance, 
doesn't  help.  One  has  to  accept  so  much.  Do  sit  down  and 
tell  me." 

That,  Hugh  felt,  was  one  of  the  things  he  could  not  do.  So 
he  remained  standing  while  she  looked  up  at  him. 

"You  like  him?"  Her  eyes  interrogated  his  face  as  though 
that  might  tell  her  more  than  his  words.  It  might,  and  Hugh 
moved  uneasily. 

"Of  course  I  like  him.     Isn't  he  a  charming  fellow?" 

Aurelia  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Oh,  Hugh.  Not  you  too  .  .  .  It's  a  perfect  gag  about 
Nigel,  that  he's  so  charming.  No  one  seems  to  get  beyond  it. " 

Hugh's  eyes  wandered  away  across  the  circle  to  the  far 
corner.  The  group  then  was  in  the  act  of  moving  out  with 
much  laughter  and  noise. 

"What  about  Daphne?    She  does  surely. " 

"Oh  yes,  Daphne  does.     But  too  much  so  far. " 

"She  can't  tell  you  anything?"  Hugh  asked. 

"Nothing.  But  she  looks  unutterable  things. "  She  paused. 
Then  quickly  she  went  on.  "Hugh  .  .  .  I'm  frightened.  His 
eyes  are  sometimes,  not  often,  but  sometimes  .  .  .  like  Rich- 
ard's— a  sudden  look,  now  and  then. " 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  165 

Hugh  took  off  his  spectacles  and  rubbed  them  with  his 
handkerchief  as  though  they  were  the  reason  for  some  obstruc- 
tion in  his  sight. 

"If  they  were  like  yours  I  should  feel  much  happier," 
Aurelia  murmured. 

"Oh,  don't  talk  about  me,"  he  murmured.  "Let's  thank 
God  that  he's  at  least  not  like  me. " 

But  Mrs.  Leonard  shook  her  head. 

"We  won't  talk  about  you  if  you  don't  like  it." 

"Don't  be  disappointed,"  Hugh  suddenly  threw  out,  "if 
he  doesn't  care  about  Socialism.  These  things  just  worry 
him:  he  tries  to  feel  them  and  he  can't.  You  were  worried 
the  other  night  when  we  were  talking  about  Sarajevo?" 

"Yes,"  she  caught  it  up.  "He  seemed  to  me  so  ...  well, 
so  cheerful  about  it. " 

"He's  profoundly  ignorant  of  foreign  politics." 

"I  know.     But  he  ought  not  to  be." 

"I  daresay  not,"  Hugh  smiled.  "But  he  is.  Most  of 
us  are. " 

"But  he  seemed  to  be  cheerful  about  the  risk  of  war." 

"We  don't  believe  there  is  any.     We've  forgotten  it." 

She  glanced  round  the  auditorium.  People  were  coming 
back  to  their  seats.  It  certainly  was  a  brilliant  scene,  careless, 
happy,  gay. 

"London  does  forget."  Hugh  came  back  to  it.  "And 
Nigel  is  extremely  typical.  .  .  .  He's  ignorant  and,  after  all,  no 
cleverer  than  the  average  journalist:  quite  clever,  that's  to 
say,  good  at  this  job — good  at  window-dressing — but  not  in 
the  least" — he  hesitated,  then  found  his  word — "responsible." 

"Ah,  but,"  Aurelia  almost  wailed,  "if  he's  going  to  be  re- 
sponsible for  Daphne!" 

Hugh  gave  a  little  impatient  movement. 

"Oh,  you  women!  Daphne's  going  to  be  responsible  for 
him." 

Aurelia  laughed,  but  her  eyes  were  grave. 

"That's  how  you  see  it." 

"Of  course  it  is.  It's  generally  the  case,  though  women 
love  to  pretend  it's  the  other  way  round,  and  pre-eminently  so 


166  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

in  this  one.  ...  In  a  few  years  Nigel  will  be  ever  so  keen  about 
Internationalism.  He  revels  in  big  emotions  and  she'll  make 
him  see  that  as  one.  .  .  .  After  all,  you  can't  get  away  from 
the  burden  of  being  superior,  Daphne  can't,  I  mean.  .  .  . 
She'll  have  to  make  him.  At  present  she  thinks  he's  making 
her,  no  doubt.  And  he  thinks  so  too.  She  wouldn't  look 
at,  never  has  so  much  as  seen,  poor  Gervase,  who  does  see  that 
she'd  make  him — and  she  would. " 

"I  like  Gervase." 

"Poor  Jimmy!"  Hugh  sighed  and  wrinkled  his  brow. 
"Yes,  so  do  I.  He's  genuine.  Help  him,  Aurelia,  if  you  can. 
He's  at  a  very  bad  moment.  .  .  .  I'm — quite  seriously — fright- 
ened about  him.  .  .  .  He  might  go  off  any  minute.  Yes,  he's 
London  too,  London  at  its  top  note,  so  not  typical."  He 
paused.  "Of  course,  you  know,  Jimmy  couldn't  have  shown 
Daphne  a  clean  sheet. " 

There  was  a  short  pause. 

"No.     And  Nigel  can?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so.  But,  you  know,  I  don't  think  it's  the  best 
thing  about  him. " 

Aurelia 's  eyes  widened.     She  nodded.     She  took  it  all  in. 

"Hugh,  do  you  know,  you  frighten  me." 

"Don't  be  frightened.  ...  It  isn't  the  least  use.  .  .  . 
You  ought  to  be  thinking  about  public  affairs.  The  ultimatum 
expires  to-morrow." 

They  plunged  into  a  serious  discussion  of  the  crisis,  in  the 
midst  of  which  they  were  disturbed  by  the  others,  who  shouted 
at  them  when  they  found  how  they  were  occupied. 

Jimmy  alone,  Mrs.  Leonard  noticed,  did  not  share  in  the 
shout;  on  the  contrary,  he  stood  talking  to  Hugh,  as  the  latter 
moved  away  to  return  to  his  own  seat,  with  an  expression  that 
struck  her,  it  was  so  sombre.  The  others,  however,  with  one 
accord  declared  that  the  Austrian  ultimatum  could  certainly 
wait  and  must  wait,  and  not  be  mentioned  again  that 
evening. 

"  I  suppose, "  said  Ned  Coventry,  who  was  by  way  of  being 
an  authority  on  the  Slav  peoples  on  the  strength  of  a  holiday 
spent  in  Agram,  "that  you  are  a  Pro-Serbian,  Mrs.  Leonard? 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  167 

You  are  partly  Russian,  aren't  you,  and  don't  the  Russians  claim 
to  protect  the  Serbs?" 

"Indeed  they  do;  that's  the  serious  point,  Mr.  Coventry, 
which  your  papers  don't  seem  yet  to  see,  except  The  Times, 
which  speaks  with  the  voice  of  Sazonoff. " 

"Ah,  but,  mother,  a  true  Russian  would  think  of  nothing 
but  Boris!"  cried  Daphne,  sitting  down  beside  Mrs.  Leonard. 

"Quite  true,  my  child.  A  true  Russian  can  think  of  only 
one  thing  at  a  time. " 

They  were  not  in  the  least  shy,  any  of  them,  with  Mrs. 
Leonard — the  barrier  of  age  did  not  seem  to  exist  with  her — nor 
did  they  ignore  her,  which  was  their  habitual  attitude  to  older 
people.  She  was  queer  in  some  ways,  they  had  decided,  but 
delightful,  and  really,  after  all,  when  one  came  to  it,  easier 
than  Daphne.  This  was  Myrtle  Toller's  opinion,  and  Myrtle 
had  carried  ignoring  people  who  did  not  matter  to  a  fine  art. 
It  was  she  who  had  suggested  including  Mrs.  Leonard  in  the 
opera  party  when  Nigel  got  it  up.  The  party  had  begun  with 
himself  and  Daphne.  Daphne  had  missed  Boris  before  and 
specially  wanted  to  see  it.  So  they  had  arranged,  before  she 
went  away  for  that  long  fortnight  in  the  country  now  happily 
over,  that  it  should  mark  the  evening  of  her  return.  The  aunts 
who  had  brought  little  Jane  Sandys  up  had  suddenly,  within 
three  weeks  of  her  return  from  her  long  honeymoon  with  Lionel 
Delahaye,  made  her  miserable  by  raising  all  kinds  of  objections 
to  having  him  in  the  house  because  they  had  discovered  him 
to  be  an  atheist.  A  very  painful  situation  had  arisen,  and  poor 
Jane  had  begged  Daphne,  whom  the  aunts  for  some  reason 
adored,  to  go  to  her  assistance.  She  so  wanted  everything  to 
be  harmonious;  and  the  aunts  would  love  Lionel,  if  they  would 
only  agree  to  let  him  come.  Nigel  had  liked  the  idea  of  Daphne's 
importance  and  appreciated  her  function;  but  he  had  not  liked 
letting  her  go.  Daphne's  loyalty  to  Jane  made  going  imperative ; 
Nigel's  unwillingness  caused  her  a  curious  mingle  of  pain  and 
pleasure.  All  this  heightened  the  importance  of  the  celebration 
of  her  return.  During  her  absence  Nigel  had  added  Myrtle 
Toller  and  Ned  Coventry;  Gertrude  Fenner  and  Mallard  Floss 
had  to  be  asked  because  he  happened  to  meet  them  on  the  same 


168  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

occasion.  Lois  Drew  had  added  herself  and,  Wellesley  being 
away,  Jimmy  had  been  called  in  to  balance.  On  the  Friday 
evening  Lois  rang  up  to  say  she  had  a  headache:  Chris  Bampton 
was  the  obvious  substitute.  Nigel  had  proposed  the  Nugents. 
Myrtle  had  struck  at  them,  but  asked  for  Mrs.  Leonard. 

"We're  getting  dull,"  she  said.  "We're  all  the  same. 
She's  different." 

"There's  your  father,"  remarked  Nigel,  who  had  been  lean- 
ing over  the  balcony  so  as  to  survey  the  tier  below  and  the 
stalls  below  that,  "and  Evangeline." 

Myrtle  did  not  display  any  interest.  "Is  it?"  she  said, 
settling  down  into  her  seat.  "I  suppose  Godfrey's  been  getting 
into  trouble  again:  that's  generally  what  brings  father  up  to 
town. " 

"I  saw  Godfrey  upstairs  just  now,"  Jimmy  threw  in, 
"with  a  very  beautiful  young  lady."  His  tone  made  the 
others  laugh. 

"Poor  father,"  said  Myrtle  cheerfully.  "It'd  be  ever  so 
much  better  if  he'd  give  Godfrey  up.  The  only  thing  that  would 
stop  him  would  be  to  have  no  money  ...  as  long  as  he  can  sign 
cheques  it's  hopeless." 

A  loud  "ssh"  from  the  rest  of  the  audience  imposed  silence. 


THE  late  July  sun,  high  overhead,  shone  with  the  per- 
sistency of  high  summer  which  makes  shadowed  days 
incredible.  The  full  unwinking  glare  imposed  a  sense  of 
permanence.  As  it  shone  out  of  the  blue  enamelled  sky  hardly, 
flecked  with  white,  so  the  sun,  one  must  believe,  had  shone  for 
all  the  days  behind,  so  it  would  shine  on  for  ever.  Always, 
as  now,  the  white  road  must  stretch  out  beneath  that  vast  and 
vivid  arch,  a  ribbon  dropped  between  the  dusty  green  of  the 
hedgerows  and  the  clean  fields  and  trees  beyond:  hard,  hot  and 
happy  in  its  silence  and  its  glare.  No  breath  stirred,  the  tall 
grass  did  not  wave,  the  branches  of  the  trees  were  quiet  and 
all  their  leaves  lay  motionless.  The  heat,  clear  and  almost 
tangible,  brooded  over  everything  with  a  still  intensity.  The 
scene  had  the  immobility  not  of  a  dream  but  of  complete 
reality.  It  held  Daphne  and  Nigel  as  they  left  the  little  station 
behind  them  and  walked  up  the  hill  along  the  road.  There 
was  no  mist;  the  eye  could  see  for  measureless  miles  over  the 
fields  across  the  forest-clad  valley,  away  to  the  line  of  downs, 
blue  but  not  remote.  Nothing  looked  remote,  everything  was 
solid,  actual. 

One  or  two  other  people  had  got  out  of  the  train,  but  they 
had  all  disappeared  by  the  time  the'  few  houses  that  made  up 
the  small  village  were  passed.  Somehow  they  had  vanished, 
it  was  impossible  to  say  where  or  when.  The  houses  with  their 
windows  twinkling  in  the  sun,  the  full-blown  roses  in  their  vari- 
ous strips  of  garden  and  the  scarlet  and  pink  ramblers  climbing 
over  porch  and  window  filling  the  warm  air  with  heavy  fragrance, 
looked  as  though  no  one  had  gone  in  or  could  ever  come  out. 

169 


170  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

The  world,  it  seemed,  had  gone  to  sleep.  On  one  window-sill 
a  vast  white  cat  dozed,  with  eyes  tight  shut  and  tail  curled 
round  its  paws.  A  few  hens  clucked  lazily  across  the  path. 
Even  they  seemed  without  their  normal  restless  apprehensive- 
ness.  On  the  road  there  was  no  one.  There  never,  it  seemed, 
would  be  any  one.  Only  Nigel  and  Daphne,  walking  slowly 
side  by  side,  saying  nothing. 

In  the  train  they  had  said  hardly  anything.  Nigel,  tired 
by  early  rising  after  his  late  night  at  the  opera,  leaned  back  in 
his  corner,  with  his  eyes  shut.  He  opened  them  now  and  then, 
when  the  incessantly  stopping,  slow-moving  train  jerked  itself 
up  at  a  station,  to  smile  amiably  at  Daphne,  sitting  opposite. 
Each  time  he  opened  his  eyes  he  found  hers  upon  him,  and  this 
sense  that  she  was  looking  at  him  at  once  prevented  his  going 
off  to  sleep  and  encouraged  him  to  keep  his  eyes  shut.  For  he 
found  it  difficult  to  meet  her  gaze  and  sustain  it,  though  he 
could  not  have  said  why.  After  a  fortnight's  absence  Daphne 
had  come  back  clothed  in  a  certain  newness.  Dimly  and  from 
afar  he  had  felt  it  in  her  letters:  at  the  opera  last  night  he  had 
been  aware  of  it.  Something  had  been  added,  what,  he  could 
not  say,  in  the  days  of  their  separation.  At  Covent  Garden 
she  had  looked  much  prettier  than  he  remembered  her,  be- 
wildering and  disturbing.  He  had  felt  that  he  was  more  in 
love  even  than  he  had  imagined.  This  impression  had  been 
strong  at  Boris,  it  had  held  through  the  dangerous  repetition 
of  another  night  of  the  same  party  in  the  same  place  for  the  last 
night  of  the  Ballet.  On  the  Saturday  Nigel  had  taken  the  whole 
party  to  supper  after  the  final  fall  of  the  curtain  on  innumerable 
bouquets,  anthems  and  speeches;  but  it  was  not  the  champagne 
he  drank  that  had  made  him  talk  brilliantly,  as  he  had  done,  it 
was  the  passion  that  he  felt  thrilling  in  his  veins,  his  sense  of 
Daphne,  her  loveliness  and  his  happiness  singing  in  his  head. 
But  to-day  it  was  gone,  gone  as  if  it  had  indeed  been  volatile 
as  the  froth  of  champagne.  This  morning  on  the  platform  at 
Victoria  he  had  felt  a  kind  of  embarrassment  before  Daphne, 
an  embarrassment  absurd  and  yet  paralysing.  He  had  found 
nothing  to  say.  Daphne,  it  was  true,  had  said  little  enough 
on  her  side.  But  she  was  not  embarrassed  in  the  sense  that 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  171 

he  was.  If  she  was  silent  it  was  because  she  had,  he  knew, 
things  to  say  that  could  not  be  expressed  on  platforms,  in  railway 
carriages,  or  at  the  opera.  It  was  those  things  that  embar- 
rassed Nigel,  and  he  knew  it.  They  looked  at  him  as  he  met 
her  eyes:  were  looking  at  him  when  his  eyes  were  shut.  Daphne 
was  not  criticising  him,  her  eyes  held  no  reproach  of  his  silence 
or  his  sleepiness.  She  was  only  loving  him.  But  that  speech- 
less love  was  harder  to  meet  adequately  than  criticism  would 
have  been. 

Nigel  was  annoyed  with  himself  for  rinding  it  so.  Why 
had  he  sat  up  so  late  last  night?  Why  did  he  feel  tired,  list- 
less, unresponsive,  when  he  ought  to  have  been  able  to  meet  her 
happiness  with  a  joy  as  brilliant?  Last  night  he  could  have 
done  so.  To-day  he  seemed  dead.  As  they  walked  along  the 
road  he  pinched  himself,  straightened  his  shoulders,  took  off 
his  hat  and  pushed  his  hair  back  from  his  forehead.  The 
hot  sun  dazzled  his  eyes.  The  merciless  glare  made  his  head 
ache.  He  glanced  at  Daphne.  Instantly  aware,  she  turned 
her  face  to  him. 

"Oh,  Nigel,"  she  murmured,  "isn't  it  amazing?  On 
Friday  morning,  when  I  was  packing  up  at  Bristol  I  had  the 
most  horrid  fear.  I  suddenly  went  all  cold  and  thought: 
Perhaps  something  had  happened  to  you;  perhaps  something 
would  prevent  our  having  this  day.  But  this  morning  when  I 
woke  up  and  saw  the  sun  pouring  in,  I  knew  it  was  all  right ;  and 
when  I  saw  you  at  the  station,  I  nearly  died,  I  was  so  happy." 
She  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed.  The  cornflower-blue 
lining  of  her  wide-brimmed  hat  cast  a  cool  shade  on  her 
face. 

"Isn't  it  all  wonderful?"  she  repeated,  glancing  round. 
"The  sun  shining  and  never  going  to  stop — that's  what  you 
do  for  me,  Nigel.  You  don't  realise  how  grumpy  and  dis- 
contented I  used  to  be  before  I  knew  you:  always  dissatisfied 
with  myself  and  what  I  was  doing,  and  waiting,  waiting — I 
didn't  know  for  what.  I  was  cross  and  critical  about  other 
people,  and  disgusted  with  the  world  because  everything  seemed 
to  be  arranged  all  wrong.  Now  I  don't  think  about  myself 
at  all,  and  the  world  must  be  all  right  when  you  are  in  it." 


172  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

Nigel  felt  a  total  incapacity  to  answer.  Fortunately  Daphne 
did  not  seem  to  expect  it.  He  caught  the  hand  near  him  in  his 
and  held  it  while  they  walked  on,  turning  round  and  round  the 
plain  seal  ring  which  was  all  she  had  allowed  him  to  give  her, 
and  which  she  declared  to  be  precious  because  he  had  worn  it 
and  it  bore  his  initials. 

For  some  time  the  road,  hot  and  shadeless,  had  been  gradu- 
ally climbing  up  towards  the  forest,  which  extended,  growing 
darker  and  higher  as  they  drew  near,  between  them  and  the 
distant  downs,  until  gradually  it  blocked  their  view  entirely. 
A  sharp  turn  in  the  road  brought  them  within  reach  of  its  very 
gate.  One  great  pine  tree,  lonely  forerunner  of  its  massed 
companions,  cast  its  heavy  shadow  across  the  way:  a  patch  of 
sudden  welcome  cool.  A  little  to  the  right,  a  notice-board 
leaned  crooked,  its  inscription  rendered  undecipherable  by  the 
wear  and  tear  of  time,  and  beyond  it  a  brown  track  led  into 
the  heart  of  deepest  shade. 

The  main  road  followed  on  over  a  wide  parched  common 
with  great  clumps  of  gorse,  here  and  there  a  group  of  single 
pines,  here  and  there  a  widespread  hawthorn  tree.  But  on 
the  common  the  sun  poured  down.  Daphne  and  Nigel  by  a 
single  impulse  turned  into  the  dim  wood. 

The  cool  and  silence  of  the  trees  closed  round  them  like  a 
healing  hand,  after  the  bruising  glare  of  the  road.  The  soft 
pine-needle  track  was  delicious  to  their  feet,  as  the  shade  to 
their  eyes;  and  as  they  moved  slowly  on,  deeper  into  the  forest, 
the  sun,  penetrating  through  the  branches,  lit  up  the  red 
stems  and  filled  the  place  with  a  resinous  scent,  poignant  and 
aromatic.  Here  and  there  a  group  of  scarlet  toadstools  shone 
like  dropped  fire  in  the  midst  of  a  patch  of  green  moss  soft  as 
velvet.  The  road  had  been  silent;  but  the  silence  of  the  forest 
was  so  much  more  intense  that  it  was  like  a  visible  presence, 
compelling  them  to  walk  softly,  lest  a  crackling  branch  should 
disturb  it.  Daphne  took  off  her  hat  and  held  it  in  her  hand. 
In  her  white  dress,  the  flecks  of  light  that  filtered  through  the 
branches  softly  touching  the  brown  plaits  wound  round  her 
small  head,  she  looked  like  a  wood  nymph  under  whose  spell 
they  were  being  led  on  to  fantastic  adventures.  Nigel  did  not 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  173 

want  adventures  to-day:  he  wanted  nothing  to  happen,  nothing 
to  be  said,  nothing,  above  all,  asked  of  him.  Insensibly  his 
pace  slackened.  Daphne,  half  a  step  ahead,  was  now  fully 
in  his  sight.  He  looked  at  her  almost  with  the  sense  that  he 
had  never  seen  her  before,  as  she  moved  on,  her  head  a  little 
tilted  back,  so  that  her  eyes  could  trace  the  pattern  of  the 
branches  where  they  crossed  and  recrossed  against  the  roof  of 
sky.  Through  her  thin  dress  he  could  almost  see  the  movement 
of  her  breathing,  the  faint  quivers  of  delight  that  ran  through 
her  strong  sensitive  frame.  To  her  the  forest  was  an  adventure. 
Everything  was  an  adventure.  She  loved  adventure.  She 
was  very  young.  Nigel  smothered  a  sigh  as  this  thought 
crossed  him:  a  sigh  not  of  regret  for  the  fact  that  he  was  not 
young,  but  of  sheer  weariness.  He  wanted  simply  to  lie  down 
and  sleep.  The  scent  of  the  forest,  its  silence  and  its  cool, 
lulled  him  to  a  drowsiness  that  was  not  merely  physical.  The 
electric  energy  that  ran  through  Daphne  almost  repelled  him; 
he  did  not  want  to  be  excited,  no,  not  even  to  be  thrilled.  He 
felt  an  actual  shrinking  from  the  moment  when  Daphne  would 
turn  and  expect  him  to  put  his  arms  round  her.  It  must 
come.  She  imagined,  he  knew,  that  he  shared  her  silent 
soaring  exaltation,  whereas  he  felt  chained  to  earth.  She 
thought — it  was  part  of  her  wonderful,  her  terrible  belief  in 
him — that  there  was  no  lovely  or  loving  thought  she  had  that 
he  had  not  in  greater  fulness;  she  had  put  him  on  a  pedestal 
and  credited  him  with  a  miraculous  delicacy  of  tenderness; 
if  he  were  silent,  if  he  held  back,  it  was  only  because  he  was 
finer  than  she  was,  because  he  restrained  feelings  more  acute 
than  hers.  But  there  were  moments,  and  to-day  was  one,  when 
something  in  her  beyond  his  comprehension  carried  her  away 
into  an  air  he  could  not  breathe:  and  he  had  felt  before  premo- 
nitions of  the  moment  when  she  must  know  that  it  was  she, 
not  he,  who  soared  too  high  for  wings  of  words  to  follow;  when 
she  would  address  him  a  question  which  he  did  not  even  under- 
stand or  want  to  understand.  If  he  had  been  saved  so  far  it 
was  mainly  because  she  waited,  nearly  always,  for  him  to  set 
the  pitch,  for  throughout  the  ten  weeks  of  their  engagement  she 
had  kept  intact  her  beautiful  reticence.  She  never  volunteered 


174  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

caresses,  never  made  demands.  Yet  he  knew  quite  well  that 
this  was  in  her  simply  a  wonderful  dignity  and  an  almost  un- 
canny knowledge  of  his  mood.  More  than  once,  and  once 
especially  just  before  her  departure  a  fortnight  ago,  he  had 
obscurely  felt  in  her  an  expectation  of  something  he  had  not 
produced.  She  acquiesced  at  once;  but  the  expectation  had 
been  there,  the  readiness  to  give,  if  he  had  asked.  He  had  not 
asked.  He  felt  it  more  strongly  than  ever  yet  to-day,  the 
expectation :  and  by  an  irony  which  he  cursed,  it  coincided  with 
a  special  deadness  in  himself.  He  thrilled  her  while  he  could 
not  thrill  himself. 

His  step  slackened  still  more.  Daphne,  now  quite  a  pace 
ahead,  turned  and  paused  for  an  instant  for  him  to  come  up. 
Yes,  she  was  thrilled;  her  eyes  were  full  of  light;  they  held  and 
called  to  his.  Nigel  put  his  arm  round  her  and  kissed  her;  he 
felt  her  mouth  trembling,  and  the  sweetness  of  it  intoxicated 
him  for  an  instant,  but  while  she  still  looked  up  at  him  it  passed 
and  he  could  only  smile  and  let  her  go. 

Feeling  in  his  pocket  he  produced  a  cigarette-case. 

"Look  at  that  heavenly  bed  of  moss."  He  pointed  to 
a  deep  swelling  bank  round  the  roots  of  two  vast  trees,  covered 
with  golden  moss.  "Let's  sit  down  there.  Have  a  cigarette? " 
He  lit  one  as  he  spoke.  Daphne  shook  her  head,  but  she  sat 
down  on  the  bank  and  Nigel  stretched  himself  at  her  feet. 

A  long  silence  followed:  a  silence  in  which  the  falling  of 
the  pine  needles  could  almost  be  heard,  and  very  far  off  the 
trickling  of  some  tiny  underground  stream.  Nigel  lay  with 
his  eyes  shut  but  not  asleep.  His  drowsiness  had  passed  off. 
He  was  thinking,  puzzling  over  an  idea  which  had  occurred  to 
him:  a  brilliant  idea.  At  last  he  said — 

"Do  you  know,  these  must  be  the  Nugents'  woods,  or 
the  beginning  of  them.  Indeed,  we  must  be  quite  near  Ten- 
acre — you  know,  the  woods  behind  the  hawthorn  park." 

"Yes."  Daphne  accepted  it  dreamily.  Nigel  could  not 
see  her  face  without  changing  his  position.  He  did  not  move. 
Her  voice  sounded  far  away. 

Another  interval  of  silence  followed.  But  Nigel  was  now 
wide  awake  and  alert  again.  He  sat  up  in  order  to  discover  the 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  175 

exact  position  of  the  sun  and  adjust  the  compass  hanging  at 
his  watch-chain. 

"Yes — Tenacre  must  be  just  over  there  to  the  south- 
west. It  can't  be  more  than  a  mile  off  along  the  top  here. 
The  road,  of  course,  goes  down  through  the  gap  and  up  again, 
but  the  house  must  be  just  along  this  ridge." 

"Yes,"  Daphne  murmured;  but  again  her  voice  was  tone- 
less and  remote.  Nigel  turned  to  look  at  her.  She  was  lean- 
ing back  against  the  stem  of  the  tree,  her  hands  locked  behind 
her  head,  her  eyes,  fixed  apparently  on  some  point  in  the 
distance,  large  and  wide,  eyes  that  saw,  but  not  the  sight 
before  them. 

Nigel  drew  out  his  watch. 

"I  say,  dearest,  do  you  know  what  the  time  is?"  He 
spoke  lightly.  Daphne's  eyes  turned  to  him.  She  shook  her 
head,  a  faint  smile  now  parting  her  lips. 

"It's  very  nearly  one  o'clock.  .  .  .  That  doesn't  seem  to 
interest  you?  .  .  .  What  do  you  say  to  dropping  down  to  Tenacre 
for  lunch?" 

Daphne  breathed  something  that  was  not  consent. 

"We  needn't  spend  more  than  a  couple  of  hours  there,  and 
then  stroll  back  in  the  cooler  part  of  the  day."  Nigel  spoke 
persuasively.  He  had  risen  to  his  feet  and  was  shaking  him- 
self to  get  rid  of  the  moss  and  pine  needles  that  adhered  to 
his  coat.  Daphne  merely  looked  at  him. 

"I  think  it's  an  excellent  scheme  .  .  ."  he  went  on. 

"I  don't  want  any  lunch,"  said  Daphne,  as  he  obviously 
paused  for  her  to  say  something.  "The  chocolate  in  your 
pocket  will  be  quite  enough  for  me  on  such  a  hot  day.  Ten- 
acre  will  be  very  hot.  It's  lovely  here."  She  paused.  Her 
voice  grew  more  and  more  dreamy.  "I'm  too  happy  to  stir," 
she  finally  brought  out,  looking  round  the  place  almost  plead- 
ingly. 

"Oh,  no!"  cried  Nigel  briskly.     "Do  come." 

Clearly  he  was  going.  Daphne  looked  away,  down  the 
long  aisle  of  the  trees. 

" I  don't  think  I  can,"  she  murmured.     "Not  yet,  anyhow." 

Nigel  felt  an  obscure  irritation. 


176  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

"Well,  I  shall  go  on.  You  can  follow  me.  I  need  a  little 
exercise.  .  .  .  Shall  I  leave  you  the  cigarettes?" 

Daphne  had  leaned  back  against  the  tree  again  and  her 
eyes  wandered  away  for  a  moment  before  returning  to  his 
face. 

"No,  thank  you,"  she  answered.  "I  don't  need  any- 
thing." 

Nigel  hung  in  one  foot. 

"It  would  be  much  nicer  if  you  would  come  too,"  he 
said. 

Daphne  still  looked  at  him.  There  was  no  reproach  or 
wonder  in  her  look.  She  was  evidently  too  deeply  absorbed 
really  to  take  in  what  he  was  saying. 

"Perhaps  I'll  come  later,"  she  said  vaguely.  "I  could  not, 
now." 

The  first  person  Nigel  saw  on  turning  into  the  neatly  kept 
drive  of  Tenacre  was  Gervase  O'Connor.  The  young  man 
was  standing  quite  still  in  the  middle  of  the  drive,  with  his  back 
to  Nigel.  He  was  clad  in  flannels  and  might  have  merely 
come  out  from  the  tennis-court  in  search  of  a  lost  ball,  but  his 
attitude  as  he  stood,  hands  in  pockets,  the  sun  beating  down 
on  his  bare  black  head,  staring  at  the  ground,  did  not  confirm 
this.  His  stare  was  fixed  and  unnatural.  He  might  have  been 
gazing  down  at  a  grave  instead  of  at  the  smooth  hard  surface 
of  the  gravel.  Whatever  it  was  he  looked  at  he  was  absorbed, 
so  much  absorbed  that  he  did  not  hear  the  click  of  the  gate 
behind  Nigel,  or  his  footsteps  on  the  drive  as  he  approached. 
Nor  did  he  appear  in  the  least  interested  in  or  pleased  by  the 
sight  of  Nigel  when  the  latter  struck  him  cheerfully  on  the  back 
and  hailed  him  by  his  name.  He  looked  round  without  smiling 
— for  a  moment  his  dark  eyes  rested  almost  angrily  on  the 
other's  face — and  looked  away  again  immediately. 

"Got  a  paper?"  he  suddenly  ejaculated.  His  remark  bore 
no  relation  to  Nigel's  greeting  or  to  his  question  as  to  whether 
there  were  a  large  party  at  the  house. 

"Paper?"  said  Nigel  easily.  "No.  Why  should  I?  Who 
wants  to  read  papers  on  such  a  day  as  this?" 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  177 

Gervase  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  gave  a  short  mechanical 
laugh. 

"No,"  he  said,  and  now  he  stared  so  hard  that  Nigel  blinked 
and  looked  away  towards  the  tennis-lawn,  on  which  he  caught 
a  glimpse  of  several  white  figures.  "No,  you,  of  course,  are 
better  employed."  He  looked  round  vaguely,  made  a  short 
pause,  and  then  went  on,  "Where  is  Miss  Leonard?" 

Nigel,  to  his  own  annoyance,  felt  himself  suddenly  flush- 
ing. Gervase  laughed  rather  disagreeably. 

"Oh,  say  it's  no  business  of  mine  if  that  will  amuse  you," 
he  ejaculated. 

"I  do  not  see  why  you  should  assume  that  we  are  insep- 
arable. Miss  Leonard  has  been  away/'  Nigel  snapped  out, 
annoyed  with  Gervase's  tone. 

"Don't  bother  trying  to  snub  me,  my  dear  Strode — and 
as  for  prevarication,  that  you  can  keep  for  your  dear  Mabel.  . . . 
I  happened,  you  see,  to  come  down  by  the  nine-forty  myself 
this  morning,  that's  all." 

He  turned  on  his  heel  and  moved  towards  the  house,  leaving 
Nigel  distinctly  ruffled,  annoyed  with  his  own  clumsiness  and 
furious  with  Gervase  for  having  involved  him  in  it. 

His  complacency  was  only  partially  restored  by  the  cheer- 
ful shouts  with  which  he  was  nailed  when  he  approached  the 
house,  by  Mabel  Nugent  and  the  Carringtons,  who  were  sit- 
ting under  the  big  cedar  watching  Edgar,  purple  in  the  face, 
playing  a  vigorous  single  with  Ned  Coventry.  They  belonged 
to  the  school  which  holds  that  nothing  is  so  cooling  on  a  hot 
day  as  to  make  yourself  hotter  by  exercise.  His  meeting  with 
Gervase  O'Connor  meant  that  he  should,  at  some  stage  or  other, 
have  to  explain  Daphne's  absence:  and  that  was  irritating.  He 
felt  annoyed  with  Gervase  and  only  a  little  less  annoyed  with 
Daphne  for  having  placed  him  in  a  false  position. 

Mabel  Nugent,  however,  could,  it  seemed,  think  of  him 
apart  from  Daphne.  She  purred  over  him  delightedly  for  a 
few  moments,  while  Evangeline  Carrington,  with  her  long 
violet  draperies  arranged  round  a  deep  chair,  dozed  beautifully 
under  the  shade  of  a  vast  yellow  and  blue  Chinese  umbrella. 
Her  husband,  who  had  contented  himself  with  a  brief  nod  to 


178  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

Nigel,  was  absorbed  in  one  newspaper,  while  others  lay  round 
him  in  heaps.  Nigel  recovered  his  serenity;  but  it  was  external 
and  insecure.  The  party  was  a  tiresome  repetition  of  the 
former  one:  and  when  Mabel  at  last  did  ask  after  Daphne  he 
could  think  of  nothing  better  to  say  than  that  he  had  left  her 
in  the  wood  asleep.  Mabel  was  entirely  on  his  side,  but  she 
was  too  sympathetic,  and  on  the  wrong  lines.  He  could  almost 
see  her  rapid  mind  constructing  a  card-house  of  misunderstand- 
ing. To  arrest  her  at  least  for  the  present,  he  turned  to  Royal 
Carrington  and  asked  him  what  there  was  in  the  papers,  al- 
though he  did  not  in  the  least  want  to  know.  One  knew  what 
there  was  in  the  Sunday  papers.  "  Echoes  of  the  big  fight "- 
that  was  all  the  halfpenny  press  was  likely  to  have  produced. 

Royal  Carrington  looked  up. 

"Austria's  going  in,"  he  said,  with  an  accent  of  distinct 
satisfaction. 

"Really?"  cried  Mabel  Nugent.  "In  spite  of  the  Serbian 
reply?" 

"Yes.  I  was  afraid  it  was  all  going  to  blow  over,  but 
they're  evidently  spoiling  for  a  fight,  the  Magyars." 

Nigel  groaned.     "Another  Balkan  war,"  he  said. 

"I  missed  the  first,"  said  Carrington.  "I  was  in  the  States. 
I  must  get  out  and  see  this  time.  I've  great  notions  of  a  modern 
war  production.  It's  never  been  done,  and  there  are  tremen- 
dous chances  in  it,  for  any  one  with  the  right  ideas." 

No  one  took  him  up.  They  were  rather  tired  of  Carring- 
ton's  advance  notices.  He  returned  to  his  papers.  The  other 
two  watched  the  tennis  for  a  few  moments. 

"It's  cooling  to  see  them  getting  so  hot,  isn't  it?"  mur- 
mured Mrs.  Nugent.  "Edgar  needs  to  run:  he's  getting  fat. 
Jimmy  did  all  the  work  last  set." 

"What's  the  matter  with  Jimmy?"  Nigel  asked. 

"Is  anything  the  matter?"  said  Mrs.  Nugent  carelessly. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Nigel.  "But  he  seemed  to  me  rather 
madder  than  usual  when  I  ran  up  against  him  just  now  in  the 
drive.  Of  course  he's  always  rather  mad." 

"Yes."  Mabel  looked  thoughtful  for  a  moment.  "No 
doubt  your  engagement  rather  cut  him  up." 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  179 

"Did  he  really  mind  much?"  Nigel  felt  a  little  uncom- 
fortable. He  had  rather  forgotten  about  Jimmy  in  this  con- 
nection in  the  last  two  months.  Not  happening  to  have  seen 
him  except  in  company  he  had  assumed  that  the  young  man 
had  quite  got  over  his  aberration. 

"I  don't  know,"  Mrs.  Nugent  mused.  "I  think  it  was  a 
shock  to  him.  You  know,  when  you  were  down  here,  in  fact 
the  night  your  engagement  took  place,  he  bolted  off,  just  as 
he  was,  without  a  hat  or  any  luggage — we  had  to  send  all  his 
things  after  him.  He  said  he  was  called  away,  but  I  don't 
believe  it.  No  telegram  came  up  to  the  house  as  far  as  I  could 
find  out.  I  asked  all  the  servants.  I  don't  know  how  he  got 
up  to  town  either.  There's  no  train  till  the  ten,  you  know." 

Nigel  did  know,  for  Daphne  had  that  very  evening  when 
they  came  in  jestingly  suggested  that  they  should  run  away 
from  the  Nugents  and  their  congratulations:  and  looking  up 
the  time-table  he  had  persuaded  her  that  it  was  impossible, 
because  there  was  no  train.  She  seemed  to  have  forgotten  his 
car,  and  he  did  not  remind  her  of  it.  Mabel  went  on — 

"He  must  have  walked  at  least  part  of  the  way,  East  Croy- 
don  or  something  like  that.  I've  often  thought  of  asking  him 
about  it. " 

Nigel  glanced  at  Mabel  Nugent.  He  remembered  some  of 
the  things  Hugh  had  said  about  her  and  felt  for  an  instant  that 
Hugh  was  not  perhaps,  after  all,  so  unjust  as  he  had  always 
thought  him. 

She  went  on — 

"There's  something  rather  alarming  about  him,  though. 
.  .  .  He's  not  like  you,  Nigel;  I  should  have  asked  you,  in  a 
similar  case. " 

Nigel  smiled. 

"And  you  think  I  should  have  told  you?" 

"Oh,  yes" — she  was  quite  confident — "at  least,  you  would 
have  made  some  kind  of  answer,  and  I  should  have  guessed 
the  truth. " 

He  pondered  on  this  for  a  moment. 

"Why  do  you  think  Jimmy  more  alarming  than  I  am?  Do 
you  agree,  Mrs.  Carrington?" 


180  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

Evangeline  had  waked  up  and  was  looking  at  him  with  her 
large  dull  eyes. 

"That  you  are  not  alarming?"  she  murmured  in  the  slow 
soft  drawl  she  affected.  "  I  don't  know. " 

"Nigel's  too  charming  to  alarm  any  one."  Mrs.  Nugent 
was  quite  ready.  "You  know  he'll  always  be  nice. " 

Nigel  bowed.     "And  Jimmy?"  he  queried. 

"Oh,  you  don't  know  anything  about  him.  He's  incalcu- 
lable. For  instance,  he  seems  now  to  have  disappeared  again. 
And  there's  lunch. " 

The  gong  sounded  loudly  from  the  terrace.  Mable  rose, 
Edgar  Nugent  lay  down  his  racquet. 

"Now,  Edgar,  don't  leave  it  lying  on  the  grass  like  that," 
screamed  his  wife.  "That's  Edgar  all  over,"  she  sighed  to 
Nigel.  "He  hasn't  got  the  art  of  life  in  the  least  bit.  Nor 
has  Jimmy.  .  .  .  You  have  it  more  than  any  one  I  know. " 

Nigel  enjoyed  his  lunch.  Gervase  did  not  appear.  Edgar 
Nugent  made  a  perfunctory  inquiry  as  to  the  whereabouts  of 
Miss  Leonard;  but  since  he  did  not  listen  for  any  answer,  Nigel 
felt  himself  absolved  from  giving  one.  He  had  a  good  appetite 
and  found  the  company  congenial.  They  talked  of  nothing  in 
particular,  after  Royal  Carrington's  attempt  to  describe  the 
probable  cause  of  the  Austro-Serbian  quarrel  had  been  squashed 
by  Ned  Coventry's  superior  knowledge  of  the  domestic  difficul- 
ties of  Austro-Hungary,  and  Ned  Coventry's  exposition  of  the 
rights  of  the  Ruthenes  and  Slovaks  had  in  its  turn  been  drowned 
in  a  general  howl  of  boredom.  It  was  simply  the  usual  light 
banter,  but  Nigel  found  it  restful  and  refreshing  as  a  change — 
from  what  he  did  not  quite  know.  He  felt  at  home  among 
them  and  at  ease.  They  found  him  clever,  charming,  delight- 
ful; and  he  expanded  in  the  tepid  sunshine  of  their  appreciation. 
Gervase  O'Connor  did  not  turn  up  during  the  afternoon.  His 
absence  was  queer,  but  a  relief.  Nothing  marred  Nigel's  good 
humour  but  a  faint  sense  that  his  having  come  alone  might 
be  commented  on  in  tones  he  should  not  like,  tones  wounding 
to  his  self-esteem,  when  they  all  talked  it  over  together  after 
he  was  gone.  He  had  rather  too  sharp  a  vision  of  Mabel 
Nugent's  probable  explanations. 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  181 

But  as,  so  late  in  the  afternoon  that  he  left  tea  on  the  table 
and  his  own  hasty  cup  emptied,  he  started  down  the  road 
towards  the  woods,  Nigel  comforted  himself  with  an  assurance 
that  he  could  not  have  explained,  but  which  he  nevertheless 
found  sufficient,  that  Jimmy,  even  if  he  had  returned,  would 
take  no  part  in  the  discussion.  After  all,  it  was  one  of  the 
consequences  of  living  on  more  or  less  intimate  terms  with  a 
large  number  of  people  that  one  was  discussed.  A  set  must 
discuss  its  absent  members;  to  do  so  was,  in  the  last  resort, 
what  held  it  together.  One  could  not  complain  if  one  of  the  less 
agreeable  aspects  of  a  very  agreeable  condition  were  that  one 
paid  for  the  pleasure  of  analysing  other  people  by  being  in  one's 
turn  sometimes  the  subject  of  their  analysis. 

The  sun  shone  with  unabated  brilliancy  as  Nigel  crossed 
the  road  and  struck  into  the  wood.  After  the  hot  scented  glow 
of  the  Tenacre  garden,  with  all  its  ordered  beds  ablaze  with 
colour,  roses,  sweet  peas,  poppies,  carnations  so  thick  that  they 
hid  the  brown  soil  entirely  and  seemed  to  grow  straight  out  of 
the  dry  green  grass,  the  forest  struck  him  as  cold  and  colourless. 
He  wondered  what  Daphne  had  been  doing  all  the  time:  and  felt 
worried  by  the  reflection  that  she  had  had  no  lunch.  It  struck 
him  that  there  was  something  exaggerated  and  almost  perverse 
in  her  staying  there  alone. 

Daphne  was  exactly  where  he  had  left  her,  on  the  mossy 
bank  beneath  the  big  pine  tree:  at  first  he  thought  she  had  not 
moved,  then  he  saw  that  she  was  lying  with  her  elbows  on 
the  moss  and  her  face  hidden  in  the  palms  of  her  hands.  She 
lay  still;  so  still  that  he  thought  at  first  that  she  was  asleep, 
then  that  she  was  crying.  On  the  soft  path  his  feet  made  no 
sound.  She  had  not  heard  him.  He  bent  down  and  touched 
her. 

"Daphne,  you  haven't  been  making  yourself  miserable?" 

She  dropped  her  hands  and  lifted  a  face  not  tear-stained  but 
radiant. 

"Miserable,  Nigel?  Oh  no!"  she  cried;  and  indeed  she 
smiled  up  at  him. 

Nigel  was  immensely  relieved,  relieved  and  touched. 

"  I  was  afraid  you  might  be.     Alone  all  this  time  and  having 


183  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

no  lunch.  That  was  very  wrong.  You  mustn't  do  that,  you 
know.  That'll  make  you  miserable,  and  what  shall  I  do  then?  " 

"Oh,  but  Nigel,  it  was  not  because  I  was  miserable  that  I 
wanted  to  be  here.  Don't  you  understand?"  She  was  sitting 
upright  now,  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  her  chin  propped  between 
her  hands,  her  eyes  on  his  face.  "  It's  only  that  I  am  too  happy. 
I  feel  too  much  ...  I  can't  manage  it.  ...  It  almost  frightens 
me.  When  one  is  so  happy  the  only  possible  thing  seems  to  be 
to  die — but  that  would  be  cowardly.  .  .  .  Only  I  feel  too  small 
to  hold  so  great  a  feeling.  Perhaps,  however,  in  time  I  shall 
grow.  You'll  help  me,  Nigel,  won't  you?" 

Nigel  could  only  hold  her  hand  tight  and  press  the  ringers 
against  the  palm  of  his  hand.  Daphne  leaned  against  him. 
He  looked  down  at  her.  Her  eyes  had  left  his  face  and  rested 
upon  the  patterns  the  sun  was  making  between  the  stems  and 
branches  of  the  trees.  She  saw  something  else,  the  light  that 
never  was  on  sea  or  land;  it  was  that  which  gave  her  the  look 
she  wore  of  an  almost  religious  exaltation.  Nigel  raised  her 
fingers  and  pressed  them  silently  to  his  lips.  An  immense,  and 
almost  painful  tenderness  constricted  his  throat.  He  could 
not  have  spoken.  Before  the  simplicity,  the  white  radiance  of 
her  feeling,  he  could  only  bow  his  head  with  a  sense  almost 
of  worship.  His  incapacity  to  give  back  the  feeling  he  yet  had 
so  strangely  been  able  to  kindle  made  him  tremble,  and  that  he 
could  have  been  so  blind  as  to  leave  her  to  go  to  Tenacre,  that 
before  this  wondrous  glory  Daphne  cast  round  him  he  had  fled, 
filled  him  now  with  a  sense  of  poignant  regret,  regret  on  which 
there  followed  something  like  shame  for  himself  and  for  her  a 
heart-searching  tenderness. 

"  Oh,  Daphne, "  he  murmured  at  last.  "  I'm  a  dull  old  thing. 
I'm  not  good  enough  for  you. " 

At  that  Daphne  turned. 

"Good  enough  for  me?  Oh,  Nigel,  how  am  I  good  except 
in  that  I  care  for  you?" 

"  Daphne,  I  can't  explain.  Sometimes — it  always  has  been 
so — a  sort  of  dreadful  numbness  comes  over  me.  I  can't 
feel.  ...  I  look  at  myself  as  if  I  were  the  ghost  of  some  one 
else,  walking,  talking,  drained  of  all  reality.  That's  not  the 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  183 

real  me;  but  when  it  comes  I  go — and  I  can't  come  back  to 
fife." 

Daphne  smiled. 

"Oh,  dearest,"  she  murmured.  "Don't  try  to  explain. 
As  long  as  the  real  you  cares  for  me,  what  does  it  matter?  You 
don't  mind  if  I  love  the  ghost  too?" 

He  could  say  nothing;  only  kiss  her  hands  with  a  passion 
that  asked  pardon,  that  prayed,  incoherently,  to  continue  and 
to  grow. 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 

NEXT  morning  was  Monday.    After  the  fatigues  of  the 
previous  day  Nigel  overslept;  and  coming  down  late  to 
breakfast  fancied  Hugh  Infield,  of  whom  he  had  seen  lit- 
tle or  nothing  for  several  days,  must  already  have  gone  out.    The 
ball  into  which  his  Daily  Mail  had  been  crumpled  lay  under  the 
table.     Nigel   smiled   as   he    caught   sight   of   it.     Evidently 
Hugh's  indignation  had  been  ungovernably  roused  by  some- 
thing.    He  opened  his  own  Times  and  propped  it  up  against 
the  teapot. 

Hugh  entered  the  room,  his  straw  hat  on  his  head. 

"I  say!"  cried  Nigel,  looking  up.  "This  Irish  business  is 
surely  very  ugly. " 

"M'yes."  Hugh  seemed  vague  about  it.  He  paused  to 
direct  his  friend's  attention  to  another  part  of  the  paper.  "  Do 
you  see  what  Northcliffe  says  about  the  concentration  of  our 
fleet:  'A  welcome  earnest  of  our  intention  to  be  ready  for 
any  course  which  the  national  interests  may  render  desirable'?" 

Nigel  re-read  the  sentences  indicated. 

"Do  you  attach  any  importance  to  that?"  he  said.  "I 
can't  see  any  question  of  our  national  interests  in  Austria's 
squashing  secret  societies  in  Serbia. " 

"No  more  can  I;  or  any  reasonable  man.  But  Winston 
seems  to." 

Nigel  returned  to  the  part  of  the  paper  devoted  to  the  Dublin 
shooting  affray.  Hugh  moved  to  the  mantelpiece  and  stood 
staring  down  into  the  blank  grate,  filled  with  old  matches  and 
stumps  of  cigarettes,  imperfectly  concealed  by  crinkled  paper. 
Suddenly  he  remarked — 

184 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  185 

"By  the  bye,  Strode,  have  you  seen  young  Jim  O'Connor 
lately?" 

Nigel  felt  annoyed.     He  was  tired  of  Jimmy  O'Connor. 

"Why,  you  saw  him  yourself  at  the  opera  the  other  day, 
didn't  you?"  he  said.  "I  saw  him  then  and  he  seemed  very 
gay.  Anyhow  he  always  strikes  me  as  remarkably  well  able 
to  look  after  himself. " 

Infield  looked  straight  in  front  of  him  for  a  moment. 

'Do  you  think  so?"  he  said.  Then,  turning  on  his  heel, 
"I  ran  into  him  last  night  and  thought  him  looking  very  queer 
indeed;  he  cut  me  dead." 

Nigel  looked  up  quickly.  He  wondered  what  Jimmy  had 
said  to  Hugh. 

"Oh,  well,  his  manners  were  always  atrocious." 

Hugh  still  appeared  to  have  something  on  his  mind  which 
Nigel's  replies  did  not  ease. 

"Did  you  know  his  brother  was  back  from  Rome?" 

"What,  Fergus?  No,  I  didn't.  Nice  fellow,  Fergus. 
None  of  Jimmy's  sulkiness  about  him. " 

"Yes.     One  wonders  why  he's  back. " 

"Hasn't  he  come  with  Rennell  Rodd?" 

"  Yes.     But  why  is  Rennell  Rodd  in  London?  " 

"Oh,  dear  me,  Hugh,  you  seem  to  be  full  of  posers  this 
morning. " 

"Well,  you're  a  journalist,  aren't  you?" 

Nigel  got  up,  stretched  and  laughed. 

"I  am.  But  I  don't  pretend  to  be  the  foreign  editor  of 
The  Times," 

"  No, "  said  Hugh  grimly.  "  If  you  were  you  ought  to  be  shot." 

Nigel  interrogated  his  face;  but  Hugh's  expression  gave 
nothing  away. 

"Are  you  specially  worried,  Hugh,  or  is  it  just  normal 
pessimism?" 

Hugh  did  not  smile. 

"I  retain  my  normal  distrust  of  the  Foreign  Office,  which 
will  get  us  into  a  mess  if  possible,"  he  said  seriously,  "com- 
plicated by  a  feeling  that  here  is  a  special  opportunity  for  mess. 
True,  Serbian  politics  are  no  concern  of  ours;  but  they  are  of 


186  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

Russia's — Russia  has  said  so  already.  Russia  will  play  Old 
Harry  if  she  can — don't  you  gather  that  from  all  the  fellows 
you  meet  up  at  the  Leonards'?" 

Nigel  gave  an  impatient  shrug. 

"Oh,  those  long-haired  revolutionaries!  I  don't  pay  any 
attention  to  them. " 

"Nigel,  you're  deplorably  English  sometimes — English  in 
the  worst  sense. " 

"I  do  not  like  dirty,  palpable  foreigners." 

Hugh  sighed. 

"Heavens!  I'm  afraid  the  Foreign  Office  will  find  its  work 
easy — even  without  The  Times — if  a  reasonable  creature  like 
you  is  filled  with  anti-alien  spite  on  a  cool  Monday  morning. " 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right  really,"  Nigel  laughed.  "I  wouldn't 
touch  any  of  them. " 

"But  you  don't  listen  to  what  they  say,  either,  I  gather? 
If  you  did  you'd  know,  as  I  was  saying,  that  Russia  is  in  this 
business  already  and  she'll  drag  France  in  if  she  can.  And 
then  where  are  we?  " 

Nigel  paused. 

"I  don't  see  that  we're  anywhere.  After  all,  France  is 
France — can't  she  look  after  herself?  Besides,  the  Entente 
is  only  a  vague  friendly  sort  of  understanding,  not  an  alliance. " 

At  this  Hugh  interrupted.  "We  don't  know  what  the  En- 
tente is — that's  the  worst  of  it. " 

Nigel  looked  about  him. 

"Do  you  know,  Hugh,  you  quite  upset  me — I  feel  as  if  we 
were  on  a  volcano." 

"So  we  are." 

With  that  he  departed,  leaving  Nigel  full  of  a  vague  uneasi- 
ness. He  rang  up  Edgar  Nugent  to  find  out  whether  he  shared 
Hugh's  gloom;  but  Edgar  appeared  to  have  no  apprehensions  of 
anything  more  serious  than  a  slump  on  the  Stock  Exchange — 
and  took  a  hopeful  view  even  of  that.  As  to  France  he  was 
quite  clear.  Grey  had  said  we  were  not  bound,  so,  of  course,  we 
weren't.  The  whole  thing  was  no  more  than  the  sort  of  flutter 
there  had  been  in  the  European  dovecotes  ever  so  often  before. 
"It'll  sell  your  newspapers,  my  dear  fellow;  that's  all." 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  187 

The  sun  was  high  and  hot  when  Nigel  got  out  into  Fleet 
Street  and  luggage-laden  taxis  blocked  the  way.  The  season 
was  practically  over  and  everybody  going  off.  Things  naturally 
were  flat  at  such  a  moment;  to  liven  them  up  papers  got  up 
panics.  Nigel  stared  vaguely  at  a  row  of  men  carrying  sand- 
wich boards  bearing  some  intimation  about  the  builders'  strike. 
It  was  strange  to  think  of  that  still  going  on.  The  gaunt  cor- 
rugated iron  structures  in  Kingsway  drove  the  same  thing 
home.  He  looked  at  one  of  the  men  carrying  the  notice-boards, 
his  face  was  wan,  shrunken  and  his  eyes  hollow  and  dull.  Nigel 
had  forgotten  the  merits  of  the  dispute,  it  had  been  going  on  so 
long,  and  yet  there  were  thousands  of  men  ready  to  endure 
discomfort  and  privation  on  a  question  of  a  halfpenny  one  way 
or  the  other  on  to  wages,  and  to  keep  it  up  for  weeks  and  months. 
Daphne  could  do  that  sort  of  thing,  he  suddenly  felt.  He  could 
see  her  setting  her  jaw  and  holding  out;  see  her  eyes  shining 
with  the  idea  of  it,  no  matter  how  wrong-headed.  She  was 
wonderful — Daphne.  Such  ideas  were  uncomfortable,  but 
one  missed  something  if  one  couldn't  have  them.  His  thoughts 
moved  on  to  Mrs.  Leonard  and  her  Socialists;  there  were  Serb- 
ians and  Russians  among  them,  lots — what  were  they  up  to  at 
the  moment?  Excited  they  were  sure  to  be.  Nigel  resolved 
not  to  go  up  to  the  flat  to-day.  It  was  very  hot.  Fleet  Street 
at  that  hour  caught  and  held  the  sun's  unmitigated  rays.  He 
looked  rather  enviously  at  the  heaps  of  luggage.  He  felt  tired 
of  London. 

Arriving  at  the  office  of  the  New  World  he  was  told  that 
Mr.  O'Connor  had  just  come  in  and  was  waiting  in  his 
room. 

Jimmy,  as  usual  full  of  what  was  in  his  own  mind,  left  the 
other  no  time  for  salutation  or  selection. 

"Look  here,  Strode,"  he  said.  "The  London  press  seems 
to  have  got  myopia  worse  than  usual.  I  can't  tell  you  my 
authority,  but  you  can  take  it  from  me  that  this  Austro-Serb 
business  is  jolly  serious. " 

Nigel  looked  at  him  dubiously. 

"You  mean  because  of  Russia's  coming  in?" 

O'Connor  hunched  his  shoulders  quickly.     "Of  course." 


188  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

His  eyes  were  twitching  unnaturally,  and  Nigel  noticed  a 
queer  pallor  round  them. 

"That's  all.  I  can't  stop.  You  ought  to  take  a  line,  you 
know. " 

Nigel  felt  no  disposition  to  take  any  line  Jimmy  could  sug- 
gest, or  to  go  into  the  matter  with  him,  unless  he  had  any  inside 
information  from  Lloyds.  About  Lloyds  Jimmy  was  not  com- 
municative. When  Nigel  turned  the  conversation  by  asking 
him  how  he  was,  he  merely  looked  at  him  suspiciously,  angrily, 
and  flung  out  of  the  room. 

Nigel,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  with  a  sense  of  relief,  decided 
that  he  was  a  very  tiresome  young  man.  He  looked  out  of 
his  dirty  office  window  and  felt  bored.  Monday  morning  was 
boring.  There  was  no  use  in  wondering  what  one  was  going  to 
write  about  on  Monday;  the  effect  on  world  finance  of  Austro- 
Serbian  war,  he  supposed;  and  "The  Future  of  the  Dual  Mon- 
archy." Jimmy  certainly  exaggerated. 

"Sir  Anthony  Toller  to  speak  to  you  on  the  telephone,  sir. " 

"Oh,  put  him  through. "  Nigel  yawned.  "Godfrey  again," 
he  said  to  himself,  as  he  waited  for  his  own  bell  to  ring.  It  was 
not  Godfrey,  however.  Sir  Anthony  had  had  disquieting  letters 
from  a  friend  in  Vienna  and  was  anxious  about  his  shares  in  the 
Skoda  works.  Nigel  smiled  to  himself.  Pacifists  who  invested 
in  armament  shares  amused  him.  He  accepted  Sir  Anthony's 
invitation  for  lunch,  and  assured  him  that  he  had  not  forgotten 
his  promise  to  spend  the  week-end  in  Cambridge  and  to  bring 
Miss  Leonard. 

He  enjoyed  his  lunch,  in  spite  of  Sir  Anthony's  anxieties,  and 
also  his  dinner  at  the  House  of  Commons  with  the  Nugents. 
Daphne  was  there,  gay  and  normal.  Mrs.  Nugent  playfully 
stated  that  engaged  couples  counted  as  married,  and  must  be 
separated;  so  Nigel  sat  between  her  and  the  wife  of  a  minor 
member  of  the  Cabinet  and  looked  across  at  Daphne.  She 
was  making  a  charming  impression  on  the  minister  in  question. 
They  would  give  delightful  little  parties  when  they  were 
married.  Daphne's  intelligent  seriousness  was  really  quite  an 
asset,  granted  that  she  was  so  young  and  so  pretty;  for  great 
men,  especially  when  not  too  great,  her  manner  of  listening  with 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  189 

wide-open  serious  eyes  was  exactly  right.  She  had  most  hap- 
pily avoided  her  mother's  excess  of  intelligence.  She  under- 
stood but  did  not  criticise.  He  kissed  her  hand  as  he  put  her 
into  a  taxi — she  gave  way  with  only  just  enough  protest  to  his 
desire  that  she  should  not  go  home  by  train — and  made  his  own 
way  eastwards,  well  pleased  again  with  things  in  general. 
"Austrian  mobilisation"  on  the  bills  merely  made  him  feel  that 
the  world,  which  had  looked  dull  in  the  morning,  was  alive  and 
interesting  after  all.  It  was  a  mistake  to  go  into  the  country 
yet;  September  was  really  the  time  for  a  holiday. 

He  had  hardly  got  into  his  room — Hugh  was  either  out  or 
gone  to  bed — and  torn  open  the  envelope  of  the  first  letter  of 
the  little  pile  lying  on  his  table,  when  he  heard  heavy  steps  on 
the  stair  outside,  and  in  another  minute  some  one  pushed  open 
the  door  which  he  had  neglected  to  shut  properly,  and  came  into 
the  room.  It  was  once  more  Gervase  O'Connor.  At  first  Nigel 
thought  he  must  have  been  drinking,  for  his  face  was  flushed  and 
his  bristling  dark  hair  rumpled,  while  his  breath  came  in  quick 
uneven  pants  as  though  he  had  been  running.  He  moved  once  or 
twice  up  and  down  the  room  without  saying  anything,  dropped 
his  soft  felt  hat  on  a  table  and  stood  staring  at  the  headlines  of 
the  evening  paper.  "Text  of  the  Austrian  Note."  "Austria 
Declares  War."  "Partial  Russian  Mobilisation." 

His  silence  irritated  Nigel,  who  could  not  imagine  why  he 
had  come.  He  had  seemed  queer  and  excited  enough  in  the 
morning.  He  could  think  of  no  reason  why  he  should  turn 
up  again  at  night.  He  seldom  came  that  way;  never  except 
on  the  occasion  of  a  general  gathering  or  in  order  to  see  Hugh 
Infield,  who  for  some  reason  of  his  own  was  fond  of  him.  Nigel 
neither  knew  him  well  nor,  except  in  company,  liked  him  much. 
Then  he  was  amusing  enough;  but  he  had  always  classed  him 
with  the  buffoons,  not  to  be  taken  seriously  either  in  his  gloom 
or  his  exaltation.  Lately,  indeed,  he  had  rather  avoided  him, 
because  of  Daphne.  After  Sunday  he  had  felt  that  he  never 
wanted  to  see  him  again.  As  several  minutes  passed  and 
Jimmy  still  said  nothing,  Nigel  invited  him  to  have  a  whiskey 
and  soda  or  a  pipe. 

Jimmy,  without  answering,  shook  his  head. 


190  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

"Well,  anyhow,  sit  down,  O'Connor,  and  don't  stand  staring 
at  that  rag  as  if  it  were  a  basilisk.  It's  not  even  a  late  edition — 
and  you've  just  come  from  the  Street." 

"Basilisk,  you  may  well  call  it,"  Jimmy  turned  round  with 
the  paper  in  his  hands.  "Do  you  realise  what  this  is  going  to 
bring  us?" 

Nigel  sighed  impatiently. 

"After  what  you  said  to  me  this  morning,"  he  said,  "I  told 
Matheson  to  write  a  leader  on  it.  ...  I  suppose  another 
Balkan  war;  or,  at  the  worst,  perhaps,  the  end  of  Austria.  That 
wouldn't  cause  me  to  lie  awake  at  night,  I'm  afraid. " 

"I  see. "  Jimmy  spoke  slowly  and  very  quietly.  "You've 
noticed,  I  suppose,  that  Winston  has  kept  the  fleet  at  Portland; 
that  Rennell  Rodd  returned  from  Rome  last  week;  that  the 
Kaiser  is  to  return  to  Berlin  and  that  the  Berlin  Bourse  is  talk- 
ing of  closing?  .  .  .  That  doesn't  make  you  lie  awake  at 
night?" 

"No,"  Nigel  replied  cheerily,  "why  should  it?  Europe's 
used  to  these  alarms.  We  escaped  war — I  suppose  that's  what 
keeps  you  lying  awake — two  years  ago.  I  can't  see  why  we 
shouldn't  escape  it  again." 

O'Connor  took  a  turn  up  and  down  the  room.  Nigel  noticed 
that  his  arms  seemed  rigid  as  though  he  were  holding  himself 
in  by  an  effort. 

"What  would  you  think  if  we  did  have  war?  "  he  said. 

"Think?  Why  if  you  mean  a  war  in  which  we  were  in- 
volved, I  think  it's  unthinkable — therefore,  I  don't  think 
about  it." 

Jimmy  suddenly  raised  his  arms,  clenched  his  fists  and  shook 
them  above  his  head. 

"Don't  think!  Oh,  no,"  he  cried.  "Don't  let  any  of  us 
think  for  God's  sake.  We  never  do,  until  it's  too  late.  It's 
our  national  habit.  Well,  we  deserve  our  fate.  And  it's  com- 
ing, sure  enough. " 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,  dear  boy.  .  .  . 
Hadn't  you  better  go  to  bed?" 

Gervase  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  and  hid  his  face  in  his 
hands.  There  was  a  long  silence. 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  191 

"Look  here,  Strode,"  Gervase  suddenly  uncovered  his  face, 
flushed  red  by  the  pressure  of  his  hands,  and  showed  his  eyes, 
hot_with  some  other,  inward  heat,  and  staring  with  a  queer, 
glazed  stare  that  almost  frightened  his  companion.  "You  do 
care  for  her,  don't  you?  " 

Nigel  stared  back.  The  suddenness  and  disconnection  of 
the  question  startled  him.  His  mind  could  not  make  these 
abrupt  transitions. 

"Good  God!"  Gervase  laughed;  a  queer  and  rather  horrible 
laugh,  that  continued  itself  hysterically.  It  was  obvious  that 
he  was  not  amused;  the  glare  of  his  eyes  denied  it;  and  yet  he 
laughed  on.  Nigel  hastened  to  answer,  if  only  to  interrupt 
that  laugh. 

"My  dear  fellow,  of  course  I  care  for  her.  Surely  it  is  not 
necessary  to  ask.  I  hope  we  shall  be  married  in  the  autumn. 
I'm  looking  forward  to  it  tremendously.  We're  looking  for  a 
house  now.  You  know,  don't  you,  that  Mrs.  Leonard  has 
waived  her  demand  for  a  year's  engagement?"  He  babbled  on, 
telling  Jimmy  these  things  that  were  no  business  of  his,  though 
he  felt  that  the  other  was  not  listening  to  him,  because  a  kind 
of  nervousness  had  come  over  him,  a  dread  of  something  that 
looked  out  at  him  from  Jimmy's  eyes. 

The  young  man  hid  his  face  in  his  hands  again  with  a  heavy 
groan.  Nigel  got  up  and  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"You  know,  Gervase,"  he  began,  "I'm  frightfully  sorry  that 
my  happiness  should  be  at  the  cost  of  yours " 

Gervase  moved  his  arms  so  that  Nigel's  hand  was  brushed 
aside  and  sat  up  sharply. 

"Of  course,  I  knew  that  I  hadn't  a  chance — you  don't 
imagine  I  was  ever  such  a  damned  ass  as  to  think  myself  good 
enough?" 

"These  things  are  strange,"  Nigel  began;  but  Gervase  cut 
across  him. 

"Strange?  Yes,  they're  damnably  strange.  One's  such  an 
egotist,  you  know,  that  one  can't,  simply,  understand  it.  How 
one  has  this  tearing,  hideous  pain  that  eats  into  one's  bones — 
and  all  for  nothing;  why  one  has  feelings  that  seem  divine  be- 
cause they  make  the  world  all  good,  only  to  have  them  denied  and 


192  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

be  oneself  cast  out  into  howling  darkness.  .  .  .  But  why  I  say 
all  this  to  you — who  can't  understand  a  word  .  .  . "  his  voice 
died  away. 

"But  I  do  understand,  perfectly,"  Nigel  cried.  "I've  been 
there  myself." 

At  this  Gervase  rose  to  his  feet  and,  drawn  suddenly  to  his 
full  height,  stood  for  a  moment  staring  at  the  other.  Nigel 
felt  himself  constrained  to  meet  his  eyes,  from  which  the  wild- 
ness  had  gone,  replaced  by  a  strange  intensity  of  sadness.  For 
a  minute  Gervase  held  him  so.  Then  he  slowly  shook  his 
head. 

"Try  to  care  for  her,"  he  said  in  a  low,  deep  voice.  "Try, 
not  because  I  ask  you,  but  because,"  his  voice  faltered  for  a 
moment,  he  cleared  his  throat,  and  went  on,  "because  she 
cares  so  much  for  you.  .  .  .  Terribly.  Oh,  yes,  I  know.  I 
have  been  there.  You  haven't.  But  try,  promise  me  you'll 
try." 

Nigel  attempted  a  laugh.  The  solemnity  of  the  young 
man's  tones  got  on  his  nerves;  he  felt  that  the  occasion  was 
becoming  absurd.  But  Jimmy's  sombre  eyes  still  held  him; 
he  could  only  drop  his  own  and  murmur  something  incoherent. 
Gervase  stood  still  for  a  moment,  staring  at  the  other's  averted 
face.  Then,  throwing  back  his  head,  he  laughed  again.  It  was 
more  than  Nigel  could  bear,  that  laugh. 

"Stop,  for  God's  sake,  my  dear  O'Connor.  I  can't  stand 
it.  .  .  ." 

"You  can't  stand  it!  Oh,  no;  that's  really  priceless!  .  .  . 
Well,  I'm  off.  Good-night."  Without  glancing  at  Nigel,  or 
staying  to  pick  up  his  hat,  he  slammed  the  door  behind  him 
and  was  gone. 

Nigel  breathed  deep  with  relief.  Then,  catching  sight  of 
the  hat,  he  moved  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  shouted  down  the 
stairs — ' '  O  'Connor !  O  'Connor ! ' '  But  Gervase  was  gone.  There 
came  no  reply. 

All  next  day  the  hat  of  Jimmy  O'Connor  lay  on  the  bookcase 
where  he  had  left  it.  The  sight  of  it  annoyed  Nigel  at  breakfast ; 
it  annoyed  him  more  when  he  returned  in  the  evening  and  found 
it  still  there.  Why  on  earth  had  the  young  man  not  come  to 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  193 

fetch  it?  He  could  hardly  have  made  his  way  home  to  Curzon 
Street  without  noticing  that  he  had  not  got  it.  Nigel  thought 
of  ringing  Jimmy  up  and  telling  him  where  it  was;  but  thought 
better  of  it.  If  he  wanted  his  hat,  he  could  ask  for  it.  The 
vision  of  Jimmy  was  a  disturbing  one.  Although  Nigel  said 
to  himself,  when  it  recurred,  "Of  course,  he's  simply  mad," 
he  could  not  so  easily  dismiss  him  and  all  that  he  had  said. 
Jimmy  had  talked  wildly,  not  sanely;  but  deep  down  Nigel  felt 
a  sense  of  self-reproach  in  relation  to  him.  He  had  never  been 
quite  happy  in  his  own  mind  about  the  use  he  had  made  of 
Jimmy  in  his  own  engagement.  Impossible,  after  what  he  had 
said  that  night,  to  think  of  Jimmy's  having  "got  over"  his  feel- 
ing for  Daphne.  He  had  too  clearly  done  nothing  of  the 
kind. 

But  the  gathering  strain  of  world  events  drove  Jimmy  and 
every  other  topic  into  the  background.  From  hour  to  hour 
the  situation  grew  more  ominous.  On  Wednesday  Nigel  had 
no  thoughts  for  anything  but  finance.  When  seven  firms  were 
hammered  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  and  the  Berlin  Bourse  fol- 
lowed the  example  of  Paris  in  closing,  trivial  irritations,  such  as 
forgotten  hats,  disappeared;  there  was  no  time  to  think  of 
them. 

Hugh  Infield,  however,  apparently  had  time  for  them,  for 
coming  in  at  dinner-time  on  the  Wednesday  Nigel  was  told 
by  his  servant  that  Mr.  Infield,  who  had  been  away  since 
Monday  morning,  had  returned  an  hour  ago  and  gone  round 
to  see  Mr.  O'Connor.  Yes;  he  had  taken  the  hat  with  him. 
Nigel  sighed  with  relief  as  he  sat  down  to  his  meal.  He  had 
grown  to  dislike  the  hat  because  it  brought  Gervase  vividly 
before  him;  and  Gervase  in  the  state  of  nerves  in  which  he  had 
seen  him  last  was  a  disturbing  and  distracting  vision.  He 
looked  round  the  room  and  felt  its  atmosphere  cleared.  The 
world  outside  was  quite  troublesome  enough  without  disagree- 
ables indoors.  He  propped  up  his  evening  paper  in  front  of  him 
and  tried  to  gather  what  was  really  happening  from  the  medley 
of  conflicting  telegrams.  The  situation  was  grave.  Useful 
word;  but  he  could  not  find  in  it  justification  for  the  extreme 
distress  which  Mrs.  Leonard  had  shown  at  lunch-time,  the  more 


194  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

that  her  distress  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  financial  situation. 
Daphne  had  been  worried  too;  but,  of  course,  Daphne  was 
worried  when  her  mother  was. 

The  irritating  whirr  of  the  telephone  broke  in  upon  his 
thoughts;  he  half  rose  in  his  chair;  then  sat  back.  He  was 
tired;  Annie  could  answer  it. 

Annie  did,  and  appeared  a  moment  later.  "Mr.  Infield 
rang  up,  sir;  he  says  will  you  go  round  to  Curzon  Street  when 
you've  had  your  dinner. " 

Nigel  stared.     "Was  that  all  he  said? " 

"Yes,  sir.     Shall  I  bring  the  coffee  in  now,  sir?" 

Nigel  nodded.  What  on  earth  was  Hugh  up  to?  Why 
should  he  go  round  to  Curzon  Street?  The  house  was  in  a 
remarkably  uncomfortable  state,  for  Lord  and  Lady  Flam- 
borough  were  in  the  States  with  their  daughters,  most  of  the 
house  shut  up  and  Gervase  living  in  two  rooms  under  the 
ministrations  of  a  caretaker.  It  was  an  arrangement  highly 
characteristic  of  the  Flamborough  family,  which  certainly  was 
not  afflicted  with  an  excess  of  mutual  devotion.  But  to  what 
sort  of  an  entertainment  under  the  circumstances  he  was  now 
being  invited,  Nigel  was  at  a  loss  to  guess.  However,  he  sup- 
posed he  should  have  to  go.  He  generally  did  do  things  when 
Hugh  wanted  them.  Luckily  he  was  not  often  so  unreasonable 
as  this. 

In  the  white  evening  dusk  Curzon  Street  certainly  looked 
forbidding  enough,  with  its  windows  shuttered  and  barred,  the 
steps  dusty,  the  white  door  grey  with  dirt  and  the  brass  dull 
to  greenness.  The  caretaker  must  be  more  than  usually  incom- 
petent. Nigel  rang  the  bell  and  waited.  Nothing  happened. 
He  lit  a  fresh  cigarette  from  the  stump  in  his  mouth,  which  he 
dropped  into  the  area,  and  rang  again.  A  very  thin  cat  ap- 
peared from  somewhere  and  rubbed  itself  affectionately  against 
his  legs;  but  the  door  did  not  open.  Nigel  pulled  harder  at 
the  bell  and  executed  a  postman's  tattoo  with  the  knocker. 

At  last  he  heard  steps  on  the  stone  stairs  coming  down,  then 
along  the  passage.  The  door  was  flung  wide,  not  by  the  frowsy 
caretaker,  for  whom  he  was  preparing  curses,  but  by  Hugh 
Infield,  who  held  it  open,  looking  pale  and  gaunt  in  the  dim 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  195 

light  of  the  bare  hall.  On  the  elegant  Louis-Seize  ormolu  table 
beneath  the  tall  mirror  lay  a  heap  of  dusty  cards  and  circulars 
in  long  envelopes.  Beside  them  two  hats;  Hugh's  straw  and 
the  felt  which  Gervase  had  left  behind  and  which  had  lain  so 
long  on  the  bookcase  in  the  Temple. 

Hugh  said  nothing,  only  held  the  door  open.  Nigel  stepped 
in,  followed  by  the  cat,  now  purring  loudly.  It  leaped  up  on  to 
the  table  and  began  pushing  the  dusty  cards  and  envelopes  with 
its  paws,  until  one  fell  to  the  ground. 

"Well?"  said  Nigel,  standing  still  and  looking  at  Hugh, 
who  looked  back  at  him  bleakly,  but  seemed  to  have  nothing 
to  say.  "I've  come  because  you  asked  me  to — but  I  can't 
imagine  what  in  the  world  for.  .  .  .  The  house  doesn't  look 
cheerful. "  Nigel's  tone  was  captious.  Hugh  continued  to 
look  at  him. 

"You  don't  know  what's  happened? "  he  said. 

"Happened?"  cried  Nigel,  shaking  his  shoulders  with  an 
air  of  irritation.  "No,  how  should  I?  Has  anything  hap- 
pened?" 

Hugh  looked  away.     "He's  killed  himself. " 

Nigel  stared  at  him;  his  eyes  round  and  blank. 

"Who?    Jimmy?" 

Hugh  nodded.     He  went  on  in  a  toneless  voice — 

"Yes.  He's  committed  suicide.  ...  I  found  him  when  I 
got  here.  It  was  all  over.  I  was  hours  too  late.  The  care- 
taker has  bolted.  She  was  just  going  when  I  came,  otherwise 
I  shouldn't  have  got  in  and  he  might  have  lain  for  days. " 

He  began  to  move  and  Nigel  mechanically  followed. 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  murmured. 

Their  footsteps  on  the  bare  stone  stairs  echoed  through  the 
silent  house  with  a  terrifying  clearness.  The  marble  figures 
holding  great  electric  standards  on  the  staircase  seemed  to 
look  at  them  with  malignant  eyes.  The  cat,  which  had  run 
lightly  on  before  them,  suddenly  paused  on  the  second  landing 
and  began  to  mew. 

"How  did  he  do  it?"  said  Nigel. 

Hugh  turned  round  and  looked  at  him,  his  thick  brows  drawn 
down  in  an  expression  of  disgust  and  anger. 


196  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

"How?"  he  said.  "Bath."  He  walked  on  without  an- 
other word. 

Nigel  shuddered.  He  felt  a  desire  to  escape.  He  did  not 
see  why  Hugh  was  taking  him  on.  And  yet  with  his  horror 
there  mingled  a  kind  of  dreary  curiosity.  He  did  not  under- 
stand. He  had  never  known  any  one  who  had  killed  himself. 
He  could  not  see  how  it  was  possible;  how,  when  it  came  to  the 
point,  one  did  it. 

The  stairs  seemed  interminable;  but  at  last,  on  the  third 
landing  up,  Hugh,  instead  of  turning  to  go  up  yet  further, 
walked  across  the  space  of  bare  boards  and,  pushing  open  the 
white  door  facing  them,  walked  in,  followed  by  Nigel.  The 
small  room  faced  west,  and  the  faint  blurred  pink  of  the  setting 
sun  tinged  the  sky  outside  the  window  and  fell  on  the  carpet, 
bringing  out  the  blue  in  its  red  and  blue  pattern.  Nigel  glanced 
round;  glanced  at  everything,  the  dressing-table,  exquisitely 
neat,  not  untidy  as  he  should  have  expected;  the  clothes  folded 
on  a  chair;  the  row  of  books  along  one  wall;  the  school  and 
college  groups  hanging  above  it;  the  oar  over  the  door;  before 
coming  to  the  bed. 

The  bed  was  covered  by  a  sheet,  but  Hugh,  going  up  to  it, 
turned  the  linen  back  before  Nigel  could  stay  him  and  he  saw 
Gervase.  Side  by  side  they  stood  looking  down.  In  its  dead 
pallor,  with  the  thick  dark  hair,  usually  so  erect  and  bristling, 
lying  damply  on  the  forehead,  the  face  was  peaceful  and  beauti- 
ful. The  violence  and  strain,  which  had  distorted  it  in  suffering 
when  Nigel  last  saw  Jimmy,  had  been  wiped  out;  gone  with  the 
uneasy  passionate  spirit  that  had  been  its  life. 

So  for  some  minutes  they  stood. 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Nigel,  passing  his  hand  over  his 
brow. 

Infield  did  not  look  at  him;  his  eyes  rested  still  on  the  face 
of  Gervase  O'Connor. 

"Poor  Jimmy,"  he  said  at  last,  after  a  long  silence.  "One 
can't  say  it's  cowardice,  for  perhaps  one  in  the  ten  thousand 
people  who  think  of  suicide  really  gets  near  it,  really  suffers 
enough  for  one  to  say  it's  braver  to  bear  such  pain  than  to 
end  it.  But  Jimmy  was  that  one.  He  was  made  to  suffer 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  197 

horribly.  And  I  don't  think  it  was  just  his  own  personal  pain 
either." 

Nigel  was  hardly  listening;  he  stood  gazing,  fascinated,  at 
the  dead  face. 

"It's  rather  awful, "  he  said  at  last.  "How  little  one  feels 
it,  when  it  comes  to  the  point.  Some  one's  going  out  like  this. 
...  I  suppose  one's  stunned. " 

"  No, "  said  Hugh  after  a  pause.  "  If  you  could  feel  it,  you'd 
understand."  Nigel  looked  up  quickly.  He  felt  as  though 
Hugh  had  hit  him. 

"Do  you  understand  it  then,  Hugh?"  his  voice  was  sharp. 
Hugh  was  not  looking  at  him.  He  was  listening. 

" Hush, "  he  said.  "There's  some  one  in  the  house.  I  can't 
have  shut  the  door  properly.  Who  on  earth  can  it  be? 
The  caretaker  was  full  of  some  yarn  about  some  one  coming  to 
supper."  He  went  out  on  to  the  landing. 

"Jimmy,  Jimmy!"  a  voice  echoed  up  the  stairs.  Nigel 
started.  Surely  it  was  the  voice  of  Myrtle  Toller.  He  heard 
Hugh's  tones,  low  and  deep,  in  explanation,  though  he  could 
not  catch  what  he  said,  and  a  sudden  cry  from  Myrtle.  Then 
a  pause  in  which  he  wondered  whether  to  go  out  or  stay  where 
he  was.  Uncertain,  he  looked  about  the  room,  struck  again 
by  its  neatness.  There  seemed  to  him  something  sinister  in 
that  neatness.  Inappropriately,  he  remembered  that  his  sister 
Juliet  always  said  that  she  hoped  that  if  she  were  to  die  suddenly 
all  her  "places,"  as  she  called  them,  would  be  found  neat. 
Jimmy's  room  looked  as  if  everything  had  been  carefully  ar- 
ranged, even  to  the  little  pile  of  letters  stamped  and  addressed, 
on  the  table  by  the  glass — absently  Nigel  stared  at  them.  The 
top  one  was  addressed  to  the  Hon.  Fergus  O'Connor,  British 
Embassy,  Rome.  So  Fergus  had  gone  back.  Gervase  must 
have  waited  for  him  to  go  back.  Such  consideration  was  appal- 
ling. 

The  door  opened  and  Hugh  came  in  frowning,  followed  by 
Myrtle  Toller.  In  her  summer  hat  and  light  striped  dress,  with 
a  bunch  of  roses  at  her  waist,  she  looked  inappropriate  and  al- 
most cruelly  young  and  happy.  She  had  a  handkerchief  in  her 
hand  and  did  not  so  much  as  glance  at  Nigel.  Slowly  she  moved 


198  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

up  to  the  bed  and  with  her  handkerchief  pressed  to  her  lips  stood 
there  gazing  down  into  the  face  of  Gervase.  For  a  few  moments 
she  stood  so;  then  she  bent  down,  and  taking  one  of  the  roses 
from  her  belt  put  it  in  the  young  man's  fingers;  bent  further 
still  and  kissed  him.  Then  with  an  apparently  uncontrollable 
sob  she  turned  and  ran  out  of  the  room. 

Hugh  stood  looking  after  her,  but  did  not  attempt  to  move. 
Nigel  felt  tears  rising  to  his  eyes.  Hugh  saw  them. 

"That  seems  to  you  a  touching  incident?" 

Nigel  nodded.  The  scorn  in  Hugh's  voice  surprised  and 
angered  him.  "Didn't  it  to  you?" 

Hugh  moved  towards  the  window,  opened  it,  and  taking  the 
rose  from  the  limp  fingers  of  the  dead  man  threw  it  violently, 
almost  viciously,  out  of  the  window,  which  he  then  shut  down 
again. 

"  Oh,  Hugh !    How  could  you?  " 

"How  could  I? "  Hugh  was  drawing  the  sheet  over  the  life- 
less face.  "How  could  she?  It's  all  absolutely  false.  She 
does  not,  never  did,  care  that  for  Jimmy;  nor  he  for  her.  It  was 
some  one  quite  different — and  the  minx  knows  it.  Bah! 
She  was  just  scalping — thrill-hunting — I  don't  know  for  who's 
benefit.  Probably  we  shall  meet  the  Daily  Mirror  on  the  stairs 
next." 

"Hugh,  you're  simply  horrible.     I'm  going  home." 

"Yes,"  said  Hugh  briefly,  "you'd  better.  But  you  might 
make  yourself  useful  on  the  way — go  to  the  police. " 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 

MOST  men  and  women  move  normally  through  a  world 
crowded  with  people  in  practical  unconsciousness  of  all 
but  the  few  among  their  fellows  whose  lives  happen  to 
touch  theirs.  The  others,  the  vast  mass  of  unknown  mankind, 
constitute  merely  so  much  background,  a  little  more  differentiated 
than  the  trees,  the  streets,  the  houses,  but  not  gifted,  to  the 
careless,  unobservant  eye,  with  any  traits  beyond  their  bare 
humanity.  But  sometimes  with  a  strange  and  almost  terrible 
effect  it  is  forced  in  upon  the  mind  that  this  background  is 
animated  by  feeling,  is  conscious,  feels  and  suffers  as  the  ob- 
server feels  and  suffers. 

The  sense  that  over  the  people  in  the  Park  some  common 
emotion  brooded  was  palpable  to  Hugh  Infield  as,  on  Bank 
Holiday,  he  made  his  way  towards  Mrs.  Leonard's  flat.  It  was 
not  merely  that  he  had  passed  three  practically  sleepless  nights; 
or  that  the  terrible  death  of  Gervase  O'Connor  dominated  his 
imagination  as  a  portent  of  calamity.  There  really  was  some- 
thing that  dominated  the  mind  of  every  one  in  London,  in 
England,  perhaps  in  Europe. 

Under  the  high  blue  sky,  across  which  white  clouds  now 
raced,  sparkling  white  after  the  heavy  rain-scud,  people  were 
moving  about  slowly  in  twos  and  threes  in  the  sunshine.  And 
they  all  seemed  oppressed,  apprehensive;  there  was  something 
in  their  minds  which  made  their  feet  drag  and  dulled  their 
voices. 

It  was  early  in  the  day  for  jollity,  even  on  August  Monday ; 
but  Hugh  had  spent  many  Bank  Holidays  in  London,  and  seen 
none  like  this.  On  the  spirits  even  of  the  least  conscious  of  these 

199 


200  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

people  there  weighed  a  vague  unformulated  dread.  They  were 
too  ignorant  to  give  it  words;  but  they  felt  it.  Those  who 
had  papers — and  they  were  many — read  items  aloud  to  their 
companions,  generally  in  a  subdued  voice.  A  great  silence, 
an  immense  sense  of  waiting,  held  them  all. 

At  Hyde  Park  corner  the  silence  was  rent  by  the  shouts  of 
newsboys;  and  the  placards  lying  on  the  pavement  carried  head- 
lines that  burned  into  the  mind.  Hugh  was  glad  to  escape 
from  them  as  he  crossed  into  the  Park  again.  He  had  spent 
the  last  three  days  with  those  shouts  incessantly  in  his  ears, 
those  placards  for  ever  before  his  eyes.  He  was  physically  and 
mentally  exhausted,  he  knew;  but  deeper  than  that  was  a  moral 
fatigue,  an  unnerving  sense  of  hopelessness,  against  which  he 
felt  incapable  of  struggling  alone.  Aurelia  Leonard  might  help 
him;  no  one  else  could.  It  was  only  her  energy  that  had  made 
him  spend  the  last  three  days  in  a  whirl  of  unnatural  and,  he 
felt  convinced,  quite  useless  activity,  rushing  hither  and  thither 
in  taxis,  hanging  on  the  telephone,  talking,  talking,  talking,  in 
the  attempt  to  organise  an  opposition  to  the  awful  tide  of  dis- 
aster, which  had  risen  with  such  hideous  suddenness  in  a  gigantic 
wave  that  was  going  to  sweep  away  everything  in  life  one  cared 
for.  It  had  been  preposterous,  the  way  they  had  fatigued  them- 
selves, Aurelia  and  her  futile  handful;  absurd  the  mere  difficulty 
of  getting  hold  of  people.  Every  one  seemed  to  have  gone  into 
the  country.  The  few  who  remained  in  town  were  prostrate 
financiers,  paralysed  by  the  collapse  of  the  world's  Stock  Ex- 
changes and  convinced  that  the  worst  had  already  happened. 
They  were  ruined;  the  country  was  ruined;  could  anything  be 
worse? 

It  was  all  too  late,  anything  any  one  could  do.  Every  one 
said  so — even  those  most  anxious  to  have  something  done;  and 
Hugh  himself  believed  it.  But  when  Aurelia  declared  that  made 
no  difference,  they  must  do  what  they  could,  he  was  ready  to 
try  anything,  everything  she  suggested.  Aurelia  was  not 
demoralised;  she  was  not  stunned.  And  her  unbroken  spirit 
was  good,  when  so  little  else  was.  Feverish  activity  at  least 
kept  her  imagination  quiet;  she  had  no  time  to  stop  and  let 
herself  realise  what  it  meant  in  human  terms,  this  approaching 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  201 

Juggernaut,  the  vision  of  which  paralysed  Hugh.  He  felt  it 
was  no  more  to  be  stopped  by  anything  he  could  do  than  an 
express  engine  by  a  fly ;  without  Aurelia  he  would,  he  knew  quite 
well,  have  made  no  effort  to  prevent  the  inevitable.  He  could 
only  have  sat  at  home  and  cursed.  In  the  end  it  would  probably 
make  very  little  difference,  one  way  or  the  other. 

Hugh  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  he  entered  the  flats.  His 
shrug  was  not  simply  an  apology  to  his  normal  self  for  this 
futile  activity  of  his;  it  was  also  a  deprecation  of  the  charge  to 
which  he  felt  himself  really  open,  that  of  an  inveterate  tendency 
to  take  no  action;  a  tendency  born  of  a  fatalism  of  which  the 
thought  of  Aurelia  Leonard  made  him  feel  ashamed. 

Mrs.  Leonard  looked  up  quickly  as  he  entered.  She  was  by 
the  open  window,  sitting  on  the  little  sofa  surrounded  by  news- 
papers. They  seemed  to  fill  the  room;  the  table  and  all  the 
chairs  even  were  piled  with  them;  they  lay  about  her  in  heaps. 
As  Hugh  came  in  she  dropped  the  pink  sheet  she  had  been  scan- 
ning, and  taking  off  her  spectacles,  passed  her  hand  over  her 
eyes  as  if  they  were  tired.  They  looked  tired  and  unnaturally 
dark,  because  of  the  deep  shadows  under  them;  dark  even  behind 
the  spectacles  which  she  almost  at  once  replaced.  She  had 
looked  at  Hugh  as  he  entered,  but  said  nothing,  did  not  even 
smile.  He  sat  down;  she  picked  up  her  paper  again. 

Hugh  glanced  about  him.  The  sun  was  shining  again  out- 
side, after  the  brief  scud  of  rain  that  had  come  on  just  before 
he  entered  the  building,  and  the  little  white  room  was  full  of 
light.  But  it  had  not  its  usual  bright  freshness,  any  more  than 
Aurelia  herself  had.  The  roses  in  the  glass  bowl  on  the  low 
table  were  withering  for  want  of  water;  a  heap  of  fallen  petals 
lay  on  the  matting.  Nothing  could  have  spoken  to  Hugh  more 
eloquently  of  his  friend's  absorption,  of  her  suffering.  He  looked 
at  the  little  heap  for  a  few  minutes;  then  stooped  and  picked  up 
the  soft  petals  one  by  one  and  carried  them  to  the  window, 
which  he  opened  to  let  them  fall. 

"I'm  afraid  there  isn't  any  hope."  Mrs.  Leonard  dropped 
her  paper,  as  she  spoke  in  a  dry  toneless  voice.  Hugh's  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  matting  again. 

"You  never  thought  there  was  any,  did  you,  Hugh?  " 


202  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

Hugh  shook  his  head. 

"Not  much,"  he  said.  "Everybody  loses  his  head,  you 
see,  and  it's  just  a  stampede.  .  .  .  Nobody  realises,  they  just 
all  rush  together.  That's  what  psychologists  call  herd-instinct, 
isn't  it?  ...  It's  like  a  fire  in  a  theatre;  if  people  could  sit 
still,  probably  none  need  be  injured;  but  they're  trampled  to 
death  by  one  another. " 

Aurelia  was  staring  straight  in  front  of  her;  she  looked  as 
though  she  had  hardly  heard  what  he  said. 

"It's  incredible,"  she  said,  "that  a  week  ago  we  were  all 
going  on  just  as  usual;  blind  and  deaf  to  what  was  happening. 
It  was  then  we  ought  to  have  been  working,  Hugh.  Perhaps 
England  at  least  might  have  kept  out?" 

Hugh  shook  his  head  again. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  said. 

"  I  saw  there  was  no  hope  of  that  yesterday, "  she  acquiesced. 
"Yesterday — it  seems  like  last  year.  But  I  thought,  even 
yesterday,  that  there  would  be  people  still,  whatever  happened, 
whatever  the  Government  did,  who  would  go  on  thinking  we 
ought  to  keep  out.  Now  I  begin  to  see  that  even  that  isn't 
going  to  be."  She  felt  in  her  belt  and  produced  a  telegram. 
"Look  at  that." 

"They're  bolting  already?"  said  Hugh  as  he  took  it.  The 
faintest  shadow  of  a  smile,  a  very  unhappy  smile,  flitted  across 
Aurelia's  lips.  She  nodded. 

"'Please  withdraw  signatures  to  neutrality  letter.  Anthony 
Toller.  Nigel  Strode."  Hugh  read  out.  He  made  no  com- 
ment, only  handed  the  pink  slip  back  to  Mrs.  Leonard. 

"Of  course, "  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "if  enough  members  of 
the  Government  really  do  resign " 

"They  won't,"  Hugh  cut  across  her  faint  hopes.  "If  they 
had  had  enough  head  they'd  have  resisted  before.  Imagination 
one  doesn't  credit  them  with.  Oh,  no,  theyTl  sit  tight,  and  all 
the  Pro-Boers  who  declaimed  against  a  Conservative  war  will 
say  this  is  entirely  different. "  He  moved  the  sheets  of  news- 
papers about  with  his  foot.  "  I  don't  think  there  are  any  John 
Brights  in  this  generation.  And  as  for  the  Press!  ..." 

"Have  you  seen  the  Xew  World?"  Mrs.  Leonard  asked. 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  203 

Hugh  signified  that  he  had  not. 

"Don't  you  generally?" 

"Yes,  generally  I  do.  But  I  don't  generally  read  it." 
Mrs.  Leonard  frowned  a  little. 

"Hugh,  you  ought  to.  Ought  to  influence  him.  You 
could,  you  know.  But  you  don't.  Indeed,  you  rather  make 
a  point  of  not  doing  so,  don't  you?" 

Hugh  could  not  deny  it.  "It's  my  laziness,"  he  said. 
"Or  do  you  think,"  as  she  still  frowned,  "I'm  putting  my  case 
too  high?" 

"What  I  think  is,"  she  said,  "that  you  could  have  kept 
him  straight  and  you  haven't.  .  .  .  It's  all  part  of  the  ..." 
she  hesitated,  "of  the  unreality  of  your  living  with  him. 
You  don't  know  him.  .  .  .  You  won't  be  responsible  for 
him." 

"It's  the  only  way  to  live,"  Hugh  tried  to  defend  himself. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Leonard.  "Look  at  what's  hap- 
pened now.  ..."  He  felt  there  was  more  in  it  than  was 
expressed  in  the  sentence  that  followed;  but  there  was  no  time 
to  go  now  into  what  it  was.  "  If  Nigel  had  only  stayed  in  Lon- 
don over  Sunday  instead  of  going  to  Cambridge  he  might  have 
been  all  right.  .  .  .  You  don't  think  so?" 

"Nigel?"  said  Hugh  after  a  moment's  pause.  "Not  last- 
ingly. Not  against  a  big  wave. " 

Mrs.  Leonard  got  up. 

" But,  Hugh,  there  isn't  any  big  wave, "  she  cried.  "There's 
the  press  and  the  Government.  But  those  people  in  the 
streets — they're  not  asking  for  war.  They're  miserable,  aren't 
they?  They  didn't  want  it  on  Sunday?" 

"No,"  said  Hugh.  "But  they  will  ask  for  it,  when  they've 
been  told  to.  They'll  never  have  a  chance  to  to  anything  else. 
.  .  .  Look  at  the  people  who  signed  that  letter  on  Saturday. 
How  many  even  of  them  will  be  left?  " 

Mrs.  Leonard  moved  restlessly  about  the  room.  Encum- 
bered as  the  floor  was  with  papers  her  movements  were  difficult. 
Hugh,  watching  her,  felt  the  whole  thing  ironically  symbolic; 
that  was  how  disinterested  passion  was  foiled  and  baulked; 
defeated  by  organisation,  not  inaptly,  to  his  mind,  represented 


204  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

by  those  ill-printed  sheets  with  their  screaming  headlines,  de- 
signed to  inflame  and  excite. 

"Oh,  Hugh!"  She  paused  suddenly,  reverting  to  the  par- 
ticular point  they  had  left.  "I  do  mind  about  Nigel.  I  did 
hope  he'd  stick  to  it.  He  was  quite  good  last  time  he  was  here. 
Shockingly  ignorant,  but  quite  good.  And  his  paper  isn't 
hopeless.  They're  sentimental — his  two  leaders — but  not  hope- 
less. He  didn't  want  war. " 

"Ah,  but!"  cried  Hugh.  "Don't  you  see,  nobody  wants 
war  —  till  it  comes.  Then  they  all  say  the  alternative  is 
worse. " 

"But  war,"  cried  Aurelia,  in  a  tone  of  agony.  "Think 
what  war  means." 

There  was  a  silence.  Aurelia  broke  it.  She  looked  up  and 
said — 

"Hugh,  did  that  young  man  see  all  this  coming?" 

"Jimmy?  Some  of  it,  I  think.  He's  got  a  brother,  a  very 
clever  chap,  in  the  Embassy  at  Rome.  And  Jimmy  himself 
had  a  curiously  clear  head.  .  .  .  But  I  don't  think  he  can  have 
realised  it  fully.  If  he  had,  it  would  have  done  instead. " 

Mrs.  Leonard  pondered.  "You  mean,  he  needn't  have  killed 
himself?" 

Hugh  nodded.  "He  had  got  the  disease  of  death  very  deep 
in  him,  you  know.  Lots  of  us  have  a  tinge  of  it  nowadays — 
but  in  Jimmy  everything  was  at  its  top  note  and  latterly  he  felt 
life  had  betrayed  him. " 

"You  mean,"  said  Mrs.  Leonard  slowly,  "because  of 
Daphne?" 

"Yes.  Mainly  Daphne,  I  think.  All  this  just  came  on  top 
and  it  was  too  much. " 

"Oh,  poor  boy.  .  .  .  Hugh,  it  makes  one's  heart  break. 
Does  Daphne  know?" 

"That  it  was  because  of  her?  No.  I  don't  think  she's  got 
the  least  idea.  ...  I  don't  suppose  Nigel  would  tell  her. " 

"He  knew?" 

"Oh,  yes.  He  knew.  .  .  .  Gervase  came  to  see  him  just 
before  he  did  it.  ...  I  was  away.  I  found  his  hat  in  our  rooms 
when  I  got  back  on  the  Wednesday.  That  was  how  I  found 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  205 

out.  We  went  round — Nigel  had  been  worried  by  his  manner — 
just  too  late." 

There  was  another  silence. 

"Nigel  couldn't  understand  it  in  the  least,"  said  Hugh, 
musingly,  inspecting  the  matting.  Aurelia  looked  at  him 
sharply. 

"You  could?"  she  said. 

"Oh,  yes." 

Mrs.  Leonard  got  up  and  came  and  stood  by  him. 

"Hugh."  Her  voice  was  sharp  now.  "You  didn't  ever 
get  near  it?" 

He  did  not  look  up;  but  his  silence  was  answer  sufficient. 
Mrs.  Leonard  turned  away  and  moved  towards  the  window. 
She  stood  there  for  some  time;  at  first  merely  gazing  with  un- 
seeing eyes,  then  looking  down  to  where  the  people  could  be 
seen  moving,  tiny,  ant-like. 

"One  feels  everything  going  at  once,"  she  said  without 
turning  round.  "Democracy  is  a  farce  too.  ...  It  is,  if  this 
can  happen.  How  can  the  workers  do  anything  but  lose  by 
war?" 

"Oh,"  Hugh  groaned,  "we're  all  in  it.  Not  you,  you  have 
cared  about  peace,  thought  about  it,  worked  for  it.  But  what 
have  the  rest  of  us  done?  After  all,  we've  had  a  Liberal  Govern- 
ment in  power  for  nearly  nine  years;  and  those  nine  years  have 
brought  us  to  this.  Obviously  the  world  isn't  civilised.  That's 
all.  In  a  civilised  world  war  would  be  impossible.  ...  In  this 
I  believe  it  will  not  only  be — it  will  be  popular. " 

Mrs.  Leonard  dropped  into  a  seat. 

"Am  I  too  awful  for  you?" 

She  looked  up,  her  eyes  large  with  pain. 

"I  expect  you're  good  for  me,  really.  But  it's  horrible  to 
think  you're  right — always  have  been  right.  ...  I  can't 
believe  it."  She  sprang  to  her  feet  again.  "Let's  go  out, 
Hugh.  Perhaps  something  will  happen." 

"A  miracle?  .  .  .  Ah!  I  don't  mean  to  be  cruel."  He 
laid  a  hand  very  gently  on  her  arm.  "But  to  see  your  faith 
going  to  defeat  again  is  almost  more  than  I  can  bear. " 

Suddenly  she  sat  down  on  the  sofa  again,  all  limp;  as  if 


206  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

the  nerves  that  made  her  slight  frame  strong  had  ceased  sud- 
denly to  hold  it  together,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 
Hugh  stood  looking  at  her,  wretched,  but  unable  to  think  of 
anything  to  say. 

From  the  street  below  there  came  the  shrill  voice  of  a  news- 
paper-boy, breaking  the  dull  silence  like  the  cry  of  an  ominous 
bird.  Hugh  moved  towards  the  door. 

"I'll  go  down  and  get  a  paper,"  he  murmured,  glancing  at 
the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece.  "They  may  have  got  something 
of  Grey  by  now." 

Mrs.  Leonard  dropped  her  hands.  "It's  too  early,"  she 
said,  "but  you  might  try  to  hear  him.  That  would  be  far  better. 
I  still  feel  a  faint  hope  of  Grey. "  Hugh  shook  his  head. 

"I  distrust  those  strong  silent  Englishmen,"  he  said.  "But 
I'll  go.  It  ought  to  be  a  remarkable  performance,  anyhow. 
With  people's  nerves  in  their  present  state,  he's  got  the  chance  of 
a  lifetime. " 

"Yes.     If  we  have  a  great  man,  here  is  his  moment. " 

Hugh  sighed. 

"You  still  expect  miracles,  I  see,"  he  said.  "Well,  I'm  off. 
Do  try  to  rest  if  you  can. " 

The  sun  had  gone  in,  and  the  sky  was  clear  and  colourless. 
Hugh,  seated  on  top  of  a  'bus,  looked  down  into  the  streets, 
crowded  with  silent  drifting  people.  Otherwise  there  was 
little  traffic  on  the  road.  Now  and  then  a  motor-car,  covered 
with  country  dust,  sped  past  at  top  speed;  or  taxis,  with  occu- 
pants in  very  unholidaylike  attire.  At  the  corners  where  the 
news-boys  stood  the  press  was  thicker;  approaching  Westminster 
it  became  dense.  Charing  Cross  was  a  solid  mass  of  humanity 
and  Whitehall  almost  impassable,  even  on  foot.  Hugh  realised 
long  before  he  succeeded  in  making  his  way  into  Parliament 
Square,  that  he  had  no  chance  of  getting  in  to  hear  Grey.  He 
reached  an  island  in  the  midst  of  Bridge  Street  and  seemed  likely 
to  get  no  further,  so  solid  was  the  throng  of  men  and  women 
patiently  waiting,  hardly  moving,  save  for  a  vague  back  and 
forward  motion  like  that  of  the  waves  of  the  sea.  For  some  min- 
utes he  stood  surveying  the  scene.  A  familiar  voice  at  his  elbow 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  207 

made  him  start,  it  was  so  strange  in  that  dense  mass  to  find 
any  one  he  knew.  Turning,  he  found  himself  rubbing  shoulders 
with  Wellesley  Drew. 

"Not  much  chance  of  getting  through  that,  is  there?"  said 
Drew  cheerily.  "House  will  be  packed,  too.  After  all,  you 
see,  we've  heard  nothing  since  Friday,  when  Asquith  told  us 
to  ask  no  questions  and  he'd  tell  us  no  lies;  precious  little  on 
Thursday,  either.  And  everything's  happened  since  then. 
.  .  .  Seems  weeks  since  that  poor  young  fellow  went  off, 
doesn't  it?  Only  Wednesday — Good  Lord!" 

Hugh  said  nothing;  merely  nodded. 

"Shocking  thing  that,"  the  other  went  on.  "Bad  sign 
.  .  .  looks  as  if  we  were  getting  like  Berlin — they're  always 
doing  it  there,  the  young  fellows.  .  .  .  Well,  I  hope  we  shall 
have  a  whack  at  Berlin  before  any  of  us  are  much  older.  .  .  . 
It's  time  they  learned  the  size  of  their  hats  over  there.  Don't 
you  think  so?" 

Hugh  looked  at  the  other.  Drew's  appearance  was  as  usual; 
blond,  large,  Teutonic. 

"Are  you  indulging  in  a  jest? "  he  said. 

"No,  indeed,  sir.  .  .  .  I've  been  a  big-Navy  man  always. 
Never  voted  a  penny  off  Service  Estimates.  They're  our  in- 
surance; and  not  half  high  enough.  Do  you  think  I  don't  see 
it's  us  they've  always  been  aiming  at?  If  they're  coming 
through  Belgium  it's  us  they're  after.  Jealousy,  of  course. 
They  want  our  place.  .  .  .  Why  must  they  have  a  Navy?" 

"Why  not?"  said  Hugh,  as  coolly  as  he  could. 

"That's  just  it,  though,"  a  workman  at  his  elbow  with  his 
cap  well  over  his  eyes  joined  in.  "We  want  to  have  every- 
thing— that's  our  way.  It's  just  like  the  masters;  can't  see 
why  us  men  should  ever  have  a  shilling  on  to  our  wages.  And 
we  shan't,  if  they  put  a  war  on  us.  ..." 

"Do  you  think  they're  going  to?"  said  Hugh,  looking  at 
the  mechanic.  The  man  hunched  his  shoulders  in  the  direction 
of  St.  Stephen's. 

"They've  fixed  it  up  in  there  by  now,  you  bet,"  he  said; 
then,  gazing  gloomily  at  the  sea  of  humanity  surging  all  round, 
"It's  us'll  have  to  pay  for  it,  too." 


208  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

"What  do  you  say  to  that,  Drew?"  asked  Hugh  as  the  man 
began  slowly  but  very  efficiently  making  his  way  forward — his 
quick  eye  had  caught  the  chance  that  Hugh,  listening  to  him 
and  not  caring  much  whether  he  moved  a  few  yards  further 
forward  or  back,  had  missed. 

"Socialist,"  said  Drew,  squaring  his  shoulders.  "They're 
not  to  be  trusted. " 

"But  look  here,  Drew,  what  earthly  good  do  you  suppose 
war's  going  to  do  any  one?  " 

Drew  surveyed  the  crowd. 

"Well,  it'll  make  men  of  some  of  these  fellows  anyhow. 
We're  getting  slack,  you  know.  Slack  and  undisciplined.  The 
Germans  can  give  us  points  there. " 

"You  mean  they  could  beat  us?  That  might  be  good  for 
us,  I  admit,"  said  Hugh  drily. 

"Beat  us?  Good  Lord,  no!  But  we  should  have  to  sit  up 
and  look  around  a  bit  and  get  rid  of  some  of  our  sentimentalists. 
They've  been  drilling  and  training  while  we've  been  making 
ourselves  too  jolly  comfortable,  with  pensions  here  and  insur- 
ance there. " 

Hugh  smiled.     "Are  you  still  standing  as  a  Liberal,  Drew?" 

"Of  course  I  am.  The  other  side  has  no  brains.  I'm  as  keen 
about  social  reform  as  any  man.  But  national  defence  comes 
first,  you  know.  If  you're  not  a  nation  there's  no  good  being 
comfortable.  Men  are  what  tell.  It's  just  like  boys  at  school. 
Your  brainy  boy  that  can't  fight  isn't  going  to  be  as  good  a  man 
as  the  keen  young  shaver  who's  ready  to  take  any  one  on. " 

Drew  developed  his  idea;  drawing  himself  up  to  his  full 
bulky  six-foot-two  as  he  spoke.  Hugh  hardly  listened.  He 
was  surveying  the  crowd  which  was  denser  even  than  before — 
and  thinking  how  disagreeable  people  were  when  you  got  enough 
of  them  massed  together.  He  scanned  the  expression  of  their 
faces.  Most  of  them  seemed  to  him  vacant;  they  were  simply 
waiting,  like  people  at  a  theatre;  here  and  there  a  face  detached 
itself,  angry,  unhappy  or  eager;  but  the  vast  majority  were 
dull,  expressionless. 

"Our  Bert  got  his  papers  last  night;  'e's  gone  off  to  Chatham 
this  afternoon, "  a  voice  behind  him  murmured. 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  209 

"Reely,"  another  voice  accepted  it.  "  'E's  a  reservist, 
isn't  he?" 

"  'E  was  right  through  the  old  South  African  War,  'e  was," 
said  the  first  speaker. 

"Oh,  then  'e'll  come  back  alright;  never  fear, "  said  the  other. 

Hugh  began  to  wonder  whether  there  was  any  use  his 
waiting.  The  great  clock  in  the  tower  boomed  out  ding, 
dong,  ding,  dong.  Half-past  four.  He  had  been  there  more 
than  half-an-hour  already,  and  began  to  feel  that  he  might 
remain  there  for  ever,  so  strangely  did  the  sense  of  form- 
ing part  of  the  vast  expectant  concourse  affect  him.  They 
just  stood  there,  all  the  people,  waiting;  they  had  given  up 
their  individual  thoughts  and  feelings  and  were  assimilated 
to  one  blind,  dumb  organism,  dull,  incapable  of  initiation, 
infinitely  capable  of  suggestion  or  response.  They  were  si- 
lent because  they  were  vaguely  unhappy.  Some  one  a  good 
way  behind  struck  up  a  song — unfamiliar  to  Hugh;  appar- 
ently an  Irish  song.  One  or  two  voices  joined  in,  but  not 
many.  Clearly  the  general  sense  of  the  crowd  was  opposed 
to  demonstration,  and  the  song  died  away.  Vague  discon- 
nected ideas  floated  across  Hugh's  mind.  He  suddenly  re- 
membered a  speech  at  some  great  congress,  a  poor  law,  he 
thought,  at  which  a  speaker  had  illustrated  the  change  that 
had  come  over  public  thought  in  the  last  thirty  years,  by 
reminding  his  audience  that  the  title  of  one  of  Herbert  Spen- 
cer's books  was  The  Man  Versus  the  State — a  title,  he  said, 
absurd  in  the  light  of  modern  ideas.  Hugh  wondered  now. 
It  was  absurd,  in  the  sense  that  the  man  was  powerless 
against  the  State,  that  his  resistance  was  nugatory  in  effect; 
but  was  it  absurd  in  the  sense  that  there  was  always  iden- 
tity of  interest?  He  felt  acutely  the  powerlessness  of 
men  against  the  organised  power  possessed  by  their  gov- 
ernment. These  people  were  waiting  for  orders;  that 
was  all.  Could  they  resist  them,  whatever  they  might 
be?  Suppose  that  Grey  declared  that  England  was  going 
to  be  neutral,  would  they  not  go  home  shouting  for  peace? 
Or  if  he  said  we  were  going  to  war,  would  they  shout 
with  any  more  or  less  conviction?  They  were  not  ex- 


210  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

cited;  they  were  not  afraid;  they  were  not  conscious 
of  outraged  nationality;  they  seemed  to  him  mainly  blank, 
puzzled,  apprehensive.  Surely  the  crowds  in  Vienna  de- 
scribed so  eloquently  as  clamouring  for  vengeance  against 
Serbia,  or  the  masses  in  Russia  who  sang  "Bohze  Tsara 
Khranie,"  under  the  windows  of  the  British  Embassy, 
were  more  animated  than  this  crowd?  If  they  were  not, 
the  whole  thing  became  more  outrageous,  more  outrageously 
foolish,  than  he  had  seen  it  yet. 

"Do  you  suppose  Grey's  sat  down  yet?"  he  asked  Drew, 
who  was  still  standing  by  him. 

"Never  speaks  long,  Grey;  yes,  I  expect  so.  ...  Yes, 
look,  there  are  people  coming  out.  .  .  .  We  shall  have  papers 
in  a  minute." 

Even  as  he  spoke  there  was  a  movement  in  the  crowd  and 
the  cries  of  paper-boys  rent  the  air  as  they  endeavoured 
to  make  their  way  among  the  people  who  obstructed 
them  in  their  eagerness  to  get  hold  of  news.  It  was 
amazing,  to  see  the  boys  with  their  heavy  bags  slung 
round  their  necks,  threading  in  and  out,  shouting  as  they 
came  and  penetrating  the  solid  mass  as  if  by  magic.  Hugh 
managed  to  secure  a  handful  which  he  distributed  among 
the  people  on  his  island. 

"That's  all  right."  Drew  spoke  in  a  tone  of  relief 
and  satisfaction.  "We're  going  to  play  the  game  after  all. 
I  hoped  Grey  had  something  up  his  sleeve.  We're  in  it  all 
right." 

"He  hasn't  even  mentioned  Belgium,"  said  Hugh,  his  head 
inside  his  paper. 

"No.     He's  coming  on  to  that,  I  expect.  .  .  ." 

Hugh  hardly  heard  him;  his  eyes  were  glued  to  the  blurred 
letters  on  the  damp  sheet  before  him.  He  read  very  slowly, 
taking  in  every  word;  engraving  it  on  his  retentive  mind. 
Leaning  back  against  the  standard  of  the  lamp  he  was  more 
or  less  steady  and  could  hold  his  position  while  the  people 
round  him  moved;  the  buzz  and  murmur  of  their  voices  and 
the  rustling  of  the  sheets  in  their  hands  could  not  disturb 
him.  He  was  so  absorbed  that  he  did  not  even  notice 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  211 

that  Drew  had  moved  on  or  that  a  reverse  movement  had 
begun  to  take  place  in  the  crowd  as  people  in  small  groups, 
twos  and  threes,  pressed  their  way  through  from  the  House 
of  Commons. 

The  report  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  speech.  Hugh 
looked  up  murmuring  to  himself  the  last  phrase — "But  how 
far  that  friendship  entails  obligation — it  has  been  a  friend- 
ship between  the  nations  and  ratified  by  the  nations — how 
far  that  entails  an  obligation,  let  every  man  look  into  his 
own  heart  and  his  own  feelings  and  construe  the  extent  of  his 
obligation  for  himself." 

"Wonderful,"  he  said  to  himself  in  sheer  admiration. 
As  he  raised  his  eyes  he  saw  coming  towards  him  on  a  path- 
way that  seemed  to  have  quite  suddenly  opened  in  the  crowd 
a  man  whom  he  did  not  at  first  recognise.  It  was  Sir  Anthony 
Toller,  but  Sir  Anthony  remarkably  transfigured.  He  wore 
no  hat;  behind  him  a  dark  cloak  spread  wide  as  he  came  on, 
his  white  hair  standing  out  like  an  aureole  and  his  pale  eyes 
shining  as  if  filled  with  a  light  of  prophecy.  As  he 
made  his  way  through  the  crowd  he  glanced  from  side 
to  side  with  an  expression  oddly  compounded.  It  had 
something  of  the  exaltation  of  the  High  Priest,  some- 
thing too  of  his  keen  eye  for  a  fair  victim  for  the  sac- 
rifice. Or  so  it  seemed  to  Hugh's  somewhat  jaundiced 
vision.  Behind  Sir  Anthony  followed  Nigel  Strode.  He 
looked  quite  as  usual  and  picked  his  way  neatly  through 
the  crowd,  with  a  smile  for  any  one  who  gave  him  way; 
nor  was  he  apparently  incommoded  by  the  great  bundle 
of  papers  under  his  arm  nor  by  the  wide  felt  hat — 
not  his  own,  his  own  was  on  his  head,  but  the  pro- 
fessor's— in  his  hand.  Hugh  looked  and  felt  he  could 
not  face  them.  Nigel's  quick  eyes  had  probably  dis- 
covered him,  though  Sir  Anthony  certainly  had  not; 
but  he  did  not  care.  He  turned;  reached  the  other 
side  of  the  standard  and  made  his  way  with  more  celer- 
ity than  he  had  thought  possible  into  the  shelter  of 
the  District  Railway  station,  intending  there  to  wait  for  the 
complete  text  of  the  speech. 


212  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

Standing  by  the  booking  office  under  the  clock  he 
returned  to  the  paper  he  had  secured,  and  read  it  carefully 
through  once  more.  What  he  read  convinced  him  that 
to  wait  for  a  full  text  was  really  unnecessary;  unneces- 
sary at  least  so  far  as  knowing  where  one  stood  was 
concerned.  That  was  perfectly  clear.  England  was  going 
in.  The  sanction  of  the  House  of  Commons  was  a  for- 
mality; the  question  of  Belgium  came  after  the  fact. 
If  France  were  in,  we  were  in;  and  France  was  in.  That  was 
quite  settled.  Efforts  to  secure  neutrality  were  wasted 
words;  for  they  were  all  based  on  the  belief  that  the 
commitment  to  France  did  not  exist  which  Grey  now 
felt  an  obligation  of  honour.  Of  course,  it  was  an  obligation 
of  honour. 

Hugh  folded  up  his  paper  and  leaned  back,  his  hands 
in  his  pockets.  Personally  he  was  not  surprised  nor  even 
very  angry.  It  all  fitted  in  with  his  general  view.  But  as 
he  looked  out  at  the  helpless  crowd,  still  surging  to  and  fro 
in  dreary  expectation,  men  and  women  with  no  knowledge, 
no  views,  no  ideas,  no  power  of  resistance,  he  felt  on  the  heels 
of  his  contempt  for  them  a  poignancy  of  pity  that  made 
him  for  an  instant  ready  to  curse  Grey  and  the  Liberal 
Government,  even  as  Aurelia  would  curse  them.  For 
it  was  these  people  who  stood  there  waiting  who  would 
have  to  pay  the  price;  their  lives,  the  lives  of  those 
dear  to  them,  would  be  called  for;  they  had  little  enough, 
but  all  that  they  had  they  would  have  to  sacrifice.  War  was 
evil,  unutterable,  unmitigated  evil;  but  as  there  flashed  across 
his  mind  the  face  of  Sir  Anthony  Toller,  Hugh  realised  that 
the  thinking  portion  of  his  countrymen  might  refuse  to  accept 
it  as  such;  they  might  even  say — evil,  be  thou  my  good. 
A  grim  smile  crossed  his  face  as  he  wondered  how  they  would 
do  it. 

As  he  at  last  travelled  westward  with  the  full  text  of 
the  speech  in  his  pocket  he  was  still  busy  with  this 
question.  He  almost  wished  he  had  stayed  to  talk  to 
Nigel,  in  order  that  he  might  discover;  but  a  moment 
later  he  was  glad  he  had  not.  That  would  come  in  due 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  213 

course;  Aurelia  need  not  have  it  all  at  once.  The  evil 
would  be  enough  for  her  to  bear;  let  her  wait  as  long  as 
she  might  for  the  deeper  disillusionment  of  finding  it  was 
admitted  as  evil  only  by  herself  and  a  handful  of  cranks. 
Outside  High  Street  station  a  crowd  was  collected.  Evi- 
dently some  kind  of  scuffle  had  been  going  on;  some 
one  had  outraged  the  feelings  of  the  respectable  passers- 
by.  The  ground  was  covered  with  leaflets,  most  of  them 
trampled,  dust-covered  and  torn;  but  one  or  two  suffi- 
ciently clean  for  Hugh  to  recognise  them  as  the  hand- 
bills of  the  Neutrality  Committee.  As  he  made  his  way 
up  Church  Street  he  overtook  a  girl  he  knew  by  sight, 
though  not  by  name,  pale  and  dishevelled,  with  a  bundle 
of  papers  under  her  arm;  obviously  she  was  the  heroine  of 
the  scuffle.  He  took  off  his  hat  to  her  and  asked  to 
be  allowed  to  carry  the  pamphlets.  The  girl  sighed  as 
he  relieved  her  of  her  burden  and  tried  to  straighten  her  hat 
and  re-adjust  her  hair. 

"Funny,"  she  said.  "In  the  East  End  this  morning  the 
people  were  so  nice  and  reasonable;  took  lots  of  the 
papers.  And  my  postman  this  morning  read  the  one  I 
gave  him  and  said  he  agreed  with  every  word.  ...  It 
was  a  woman  who  began  the  row  down  here.  She  came 
back  with  the  bill  and  threw  it  in  my  face;  said  I  was  a 
traitor  and  a  German  spy!  Then  the  others  set  on  me 
and  tore  up  all  the  papers  they  could,  men  who  looked 
like  gentlemen,  some  of  them.  ...  A  policeman  saved 
me." 

"It's  no  good  now,  I'm  afraid,"  he  said. 

The  girl  looked  up  at  him,  her  eyes  round.  They  had 
passed  the  barracks  unnoticed,  but  from  behind  them  came 
a  noise  of  singing. 

"Do  you  mean  we're  really  going  in?"  Her  flushed  cheeks 
grew  a  perceptible  shade  redder;  and  a  little  wail  broke  from 
her.  Hugh  said  nothing.  They  walked  on  over  the  hill  in 
silence.  At  the  Tube  station  he  restored  the  parcel.  The 
girl  held  out  her  hand. 

"Thank  you  so  much.    I  was  feeling  a  worm."    She  looked 


214  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

up  at  him  shyly,  and  gave  a  little  gulp.  "I'm  engaged  to  a 
man  in  the  Territorials,"  she  said. 

Hugh  gripped  her  hand  hard. 

"Good  luck  to  you  both,"  he  said,  as  he  turned  to  retrace 
his  steps. 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 

AT  Cambridge  the  week-end  appeared  preternaturally 
long.  Week-ends  at  the  Tollers,  filled  with  incessant, 
disjointed  and  rather  strained  talk,  were  always  long. 
Courageous  guests  were  apt  to  depart  by  Sunday  trains, 
timid  ones  to  take  refuge  in  evening  chapel.  But  no  week- 
end ever,  anywhere,  had  been  quite  as  long  as  this. 
None  had  ever  had  this  nightmare  quality.  People  kept 
coming  and  going.  Every  one  in  Cambridge  appar- 
ently wanted  to  talk  to  Sir  Anthony,  to  know  what  he 
thought.  Yet,  though  the  table  at  meals  was  always 
crowded,  and  in  the  garden  where  they  sat  at  other  times 
every  chair  was  occupied,  the  talkers  lost  their  human 
identity,  faded  away  to  meaningless  voices,  perpetually 
asking  one  another  questions  to  which  there  was  no  answer, 
hiding  under  the  words  of  hope  a  nameless  apprehension. 
A  hunger  for  news  obsessed  them,  one  and  all.  Tele- 
grams kept  coming  all  day.  Newspapers  poured  into  the 
house.  And  all  the  time  darkness  held  them.  A  thick  cloud 
of  smoke  and  horror  had  descended,  and  in  it  the  nor- 
mal world  had  disappeared.  War  was  only  a  word  as 
yet,  for  all  its  incessant  reverberation;  but  it  was  a 
word  that  filled  the  ears  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other  sounds. 
Other  people  came  and  went,  but  all  the  time  talk  went 
on  between  Sir  Anthony  himself,  Nigel  Strode,  a  young  jour- 
nalist also  staying  in  the  house,  and  Godfrey  Toller, 
who  had  suddenly  appeared,  whence  no  one  troubled  to 
inquire.  Lady  Toller  wandered  in  and  out  of  the  garden 
where  they  sat  under  the  apple  tree,  dropping  scarves 

114 


216  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

and  veils  as  she  went,  and  bringing  back  things  to  eat 
or  drink.  Myrtle  was  invisible.  Daphne  said  very  little. 
She  felt  oppressed  by  ignorance,  caught  up  in  some 
monstrous  thing  she  did  not  understand.  It  was  coming 
nearer,  nearer,  at  every  moment,  but  what  was  it?  what  did 
it  all  mean?  It  amazed  her,  sometimes,  that  the  others 
could  talk  at  all.  Her  own  mind  had  ceased  to  work. 
Since  Thursday  everything  had  been  incredible,  pre- 
posterous, appalling.  It  was  appalling  to  think  that  on 
that  day  she  had  heard  that  Gervase  O'Connor,  with 
whom  she  had  been  laughing  and  talking,  whose  hand 
she  had  held  in  the  common  civility  of  leave-taking  less  than 
a  week  before,  was  dead.  He  was  dead.  He  had  killed 
himself.  And  already  his  death  seemed  nothing.  None 
of  these  people  thought  of  him.  Daphne  looked  at  Nigel 
and  said  to  herself,  "If  it  had  been  he!"  The  thought 
was  unbearable.  It  crossed  her  mind  only  to  be  driven 
away  before  it  had  taken  on  form.  If  it  had  been  Nigel, 
all  this  would  have  been  nothing  to  her.  War — the 
thought  of  it  was  almost  happiness,  in  comparison  with 
that  blackness.  To  feel  so  might  be  selfish;  but  there 
was  no  use  in  pretending  it  was  not  so.  Daphne  faced 
it;  just  as  she  faced  the  further  reflection  that  came  to 
her  as  she  thought  of  Myrtle.  She  was  not  sorry  for 
Myrtle,  white,  wan  and  pathetic  as  she  looked  as  she  sat 
at  table,  toying  with  her  food;  because  she  did  not  believe 
in  her.  With  the  curious  intimacy,  distinct  from  af- 
fection, that  college  comradeship  can  breed,  she  knew 
Myrtle,  and  she  knew  that,  conscious  or  unconscious, 
her  attitude  about  Gervase  was  a  pose.  It  was  a  pose 
that  seemed  to  Daphne  the  more  horrible  that  it  dishon- 
oured and  disfigured  one  who  had  died  in  dreadful  pain. 
She  was  glad  Myrtle  stayed  in  her  own  room,  she  could 
not  have  spoken  to  her.  She  did  not  want  to  talk  about 
it,  even  to  Nigel;  she  could  not  have  explained  how, 
knowing  Gervase  so  little,  she  was  yet  quite  sure;  but 
her  certainty  was  complete.  It  distressed  her  in  itself, 
and  because  it  forced  her  into  an  attitude  of  mind  critical 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  217 

of  the  Tollers  that  she  did  not  desire,  least  of  all  at  such  a 
time. 

Criticism  did  not  seem  the  right  note  when  Lady  Toller 
murmured  gently  that  the  one  good  that  might  come  out 
of  these  dark  days  was  that  they  would  all  be  drawn  together. 
Drawing  together  was  not  what  any  one  associated  with  the 
Tollers.  Certainly  not  with  Sir  Anthony.  He  had  always 
stood,  not  least  to  himself,  for  his  differences;  surely  he  stood 
so  now.  Daphne  had  looked  up  to  him  with  a  kind  of  rev- 
erence, as  that  rare  being,  an  eminent,  indeed  a  super-eminent 
scientist,  who  was  also  a  Liberal;  who  believed  in  progress 
and  saw  the  spiritual  behind  the  material;  who  had 
never  become  narrowed  by  his  special  studies  or  cabined, 
cribbed  and  confined  in  his  thinking  by  age  or  by  suc- 
cess. That  official  Cambridge  distrusted  him,  only  made 
him  the  more  splendid  figure.  The  young  men  sat  at 
his  feet  and  called  him  Master;  and  sat  not  snugly, 
but  on  the  windy  mountain  tops.  He  was  still  on  the 
mountain  top  as  he  denounced  war  and  Imperialistic 
adventure,  and  walked  up  and  down  the  garden  de- 
claring that  no  Liberal  Government  could  ever  involve 
this  country  in  a  Continental  quarrel.  He  turned  angrily 
on  his  son  when  Godfrey  said  there  had  never  been 
a  war  in  his  time  and  he  wanted  to  see  one,  rating 
him  in  terms  which  might  have  been  those  of  Mrs.  Leonard. 

Then  on  Sunday  came  the  report  that  German  troops  had 
entered  Luxemburg. 

"It's  all  up  with  France  if  they  have!"  cried  Sir  Anthony 
in  great  agitation.  "I'm  afraid  we  shall  have  to  go  in.  .  .  .  We 
can't  let  them  walk  over  France:  we  can't  have  1870  over  again." 

Nigel  was  still  calm. 

"Oh,  the  French  will  be  all  right,"  he  said.  "Their  ar- 
tillery's the  best  in  Europe,  so  Sir  Charles  Dilke  said,  and 
artillery's  the  thing  in  modern  war." 

Sir  Anthony  walked  up  and  down,  his  head  on  his  chest, 
his  white  hair  rumpled. 

"What  about  the  Entente,  though? "  cried  Godfrey.  "We're 
bound  to  go  in  now?" 


218  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

"No,  no,"  said  his  father.  "The  Entente  doesn't  bind 
us.  Grey  always  said  it  didn't.  It  will  break  up  the  Gov- 
ernment if  they  try  to  drag  us  in."  Again  he  paced  in  silent, 
fierce  abstraction.  Godfrey  leaned  far  back  in  his  deck-chair 
and  contemplated  his  father  with  an  irreverent  smile.  Sud- 
denly Sir  Anthony  stopped  dead. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  feel  about  it,  Strode,  but  I  don't 
see  how  I  can  let  my  signature  to  that  letter  stand.  We  ought 
to  leave  Grey  quite  free.  After  all,  I'm  not  so  clear  as  I  was 
that  if  this  appalling  business  is  going  on  we  really  can  stand 
out.  ...  Of  course  I  hope  we  shall.  But  we  ought  to  leave 
Grey  free.  There  are  things  we  don't  know.  I  feel  entire 
confidence  in  Grey." 

"That's  right,  dad,"  cried  Godfrey,  sitting  up.  "Don't 
embarrass  the  Government." 

Sir  Anthony  turned  on  his  heel  and  looked  hard  at  his 
son.  Godfrey  laughed. 

"Oh,  don't  sit  on  the  high  horse,  governor,"  he  cried, 
not  a  whit  abashed.  "I  hope  we'll  go  in.  It'll  be  jolly  un- 
sporting if  we  don't.  .  .  .  And  once  they're  all  at  it,  we're 
bound  to  take  a  hand  sooner  or  later." 

From  this  moment  Godfrey  established  a  kind  of 
ascendancy.  He  even  did  most  of  the  talking.  He  at 
least  was  perfectly  clear  as  to  what  he  wanted — clearer  than 
any  of  the  others.  Gradually  they  talked  less  and  less 
of  peace  and  neutrality;  more  and  more  of  honour,  and 
of  honour's  implication,  intervention.  But  as  they  talked 
they  seemed  always  to  be  waiting  for  something  from 
outside  which  was  going  to  decide  what  they  thought. 
It  was  appalling,  but  it  was  there.  They  sat  and  watched 
it  coming  as  they  might  have  sat  and  watched  a  thunder- 
storm approach.  At  first  it  is  no  more  than  a  darkening 
and  thickening  of  the  air;  then  a  still  yellow  coldness  that 
spreads  over  everything  like  a  clammy  hand;  then  a  pause, 
and  then  the  roar  and  anger  of  the  elements. 

So  Sunday  passed  in  the  grip  of  the  slowly  turning  screw 
of  fatality. 

On    Monday    the    moral    atmosphere    was    tenser,    but 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  219 

somehow  clearer.  There  was  a  sense  of  minds  made  up.  At 
breakfast  Sir  Anthony  was  obviously  excited.  His  eyes 
were  large  and  bright;  his  hair  seemed  to  stand  out, 
electric;  he  talked  incessantly  in  a  high  shrill  voice,  with 
an  accent  of  exaltation  and  purpose.  Godfrey,  who  had 
managed  to  get  down  in  time,  was  in  high  favour.  Nigel 
seemed  to  hang  on  what  Sir  Anthony  said  and  to  share  his 
mood.  Daphne  could  only  look  on.  Suddenly  to  her  em- 
barrassment her  host  turned  to  her  and  said — 

"What  line  will  your  mother  take  now,  Miss  Leonard? 
She's  a  great  pacifist,  I  know." 

"Mother?"  Daphne  looked  up  vaguely.  "Oh,  I  don't 
know."  It  seemed  ages  since  she  had  seen  her  mother,  or 
talked  with  her.  Sir  Anthony  would  think  her  very  stupid, 
but  she  had  no  answer  to  give.  He,  however,  hardly  seemed 
to  notice  her  difficulty;  he  replied,  in  effect,  to  his  own  ques- 
tion. 

"I  know  she's  been  trying  to  work  up  the  International 
Socialists  to  take  a  line.  Poor  dears,  as  if  they  could!  I  sup- 
pose she's  been  working  at  that  for  some  time.  It's  an  age 
since  I  saw  her.  .  .  .  However,  she's  sure  to  see  now  that 
there's  no  alternative.  .  .  .  No  alternative  at  all.  Unless 
they  clear  out  of  Belgium  we're  bound  in  honour.  ..."  He 
looked  at  Daphne. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  murmured.  "Mother  will  see  that.  But  it 
will  hurt  her — our  going  to  war.  War  at  all." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Sir  Anthony.  "It  is  horrible — hor- 
rible. We  all  hate  it.  But  there  are  things  worse  than 
war." 

Daphne  wondered  what  they  were,  but  felt  too  much 
ashamed  of  her  own  ignorance  to  ask. 

She  accepted  Nigel's  wish  that  she  should  remain  another 
night  in  Cambridge  instead  of  coming  up  to  town  with 
him  and  Sir  Anthony,  simply  because  it  was  his  wish. 
He  had  reasons  that  were  good  enough — he  wanted  her  to 
see  his  sister,  who  was  preoccupied  all  Monday  with 
a  treat  for  the  children  of  the  parish,  and  who  had 
therefore  asked  her  to  lunch  on  Tuesday;  and  there  was  no 


220  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

use  in  her  coming  up  on  Monday  since  her  chance  of 
getting  into  the  Ladies'  Gallery  was  nil,  and  that  being 
so,  she  might  just  as  well  wait  for  the  papers.  These 
reasons  were  sufficient.  It  was  true  she  could  not  hear 
Grey,  and  natural  that  Nigel  should  want  her  to  meet 
Juliet,  though  he  did  not  seem  disposed  to  make  much 
effort  to  see  Juliet  himself.  But  they  were  not,  for  Daphne, 
the  real  reasons.  She  stayed,  simply  and  solely,  be- 
cause although  she  wanted,  passionately,  to  be  in  Lon- 
don, she  saw  that  he  wanted  her  to  stay;  or  rather, 
more  precisely,  he  wanted  to  go  without  her.  It  did 
not  occur  to  her  to  criticise  this  desire  of  his,  criticism  of 
Nigel  was  for  her  an  impossible  thing;  but  she  saw  it. 
She  wanted  intensely  to  be  with  him,  to  rest  on  his  judg- 
ment, to  escape  through  him  from  the  sense  of  smallness, 
loneliness  and  insufficiency  that  this  vast,  overarching, 
uncomprehended  cloud  produced.  She  had  never  needed 
him  more.  But  he  seemed  to  evade  this  need  of  hers. 
After  all,  he  was  right.  He  must  see  things,  judge  them, 
decide;  and  to  do  that  quite  calmly  and  justly,  he  ought  no 
doubt  to  be  alone.  She  was  learning  that  love  did  not 
free  one  from  responsibility.  She  had  no  right  to  cast 
hers  upon  Nigel.  She  saw  that  she  was  doing  that, 
that  she  waited  for  his  judgment;  and  she  saw  that, 
obscurely,  he  felt  the  burden.  It  was  strange  that  she  had 
this  desire.  Hitherto  she  had  gone  through  life  deciding 
such  issues  as  came  before  her  very  simply  for  herself; 
feeling  her  own  judgment  in  the  main  sufficient;  prepared 
to  defend  it,  when  slowly  reached — she  was,  she  thought, 
phenomenally  slow — against  other  views;  to  go  on  hold- 
ing it  whatever  other  people  thought.  Suddenly,  however, 
the  most  vital  of  all  decisions  had  been  made  for  her.  She 
had  not  worked  out  her  views  about  Nigel:  she  had  been 
submerged,  overwhelmed,  swept  off  her  feet  by  something 
that  had  come  to  her.  She  was  in  love  with  him,  irre- 
trievably, at  once  and  for  ever,  and  the  steps  in  the  process 
were  obliterated  beyond  recovery.  She  could  not  trace 
them.  She  might  look  back  over  the  days  when  she  had 


DEAD    YESTERDAY 

not  known  she  loved  him,  but  they  were  vague — blurred; 
they  gave  her  nothing  out  of  which  to  build.  And  with  this 
annihilation  of  her  normal  judgment  had  come  a  kind  of 
helplessness.  She  could  not  argue  out  her  love  for  Nigel  or 
explain  its  implications  to  herself,  but  one  of  them  now 
seemed  to  be  that  it  was  more  important  to  her  to  know  what, 
upon  this  huge  issue  that  had  overwhelmed  all  else, 
he  thought,  than  to  know  what  she  thought  herself.  The 
need  of  knowing  what  he  thought  indeed  prevented  her 
from  thinking  herself;  she  tried  to  argue  it  all  out  with 
his  mind,  and,  well  as  she  thought  she  knew  it,  lost  her 
way.  The  argument  depended  on  so  many  facts  she  did 
not  know. 

During  the  week-end  he  had  been  reticent,  she  had 
felt  him  withdrawing.  When  she  asked  him  what  he 
thought  was  going  to  happen,  he  only  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. This  sense  of  his  withdrawal  troubled  her,  al- 
though she  found  it  easy  to  justify.  No  one  could  know 
in  advance  what  was  going  to  happen;  no  one,  and 
least  of  all  a  responsible  journalist,  would  dare  to  say.  Yet, 
deep  down,  Daphne  felt  it,  and  it  made  her  almost  glad  that 
Nigel  should  go  up  to  town  without  her.  It  was  better  that 
he  should  be  gone  altogether  than  that  he  should  be  there 
and  yet  not  there  for  her. 

So  Monday  dragged  by.  Tuesday's  papers  brought 
the  report  of  Grey's  speech;  but  on  Tuesday  morning 
Daphne  found  that  Lady  Toller  had  innumerable  little 
things  to  do  in  which  she  could  help  her.  She  put  the 
speech  aside  to  be  read  properly  in  the  solitude  of  the 
train,  and  devoted  the  time  before  she  had  to  go  out 
to  Melbury  to  writing  notes  and  arranging  flowers,  and 
incidentally  hearing  all  about  the  family  from  Lady 
Toller.  It  was  an  odd  and  new  angle  from  which  to  see 
them,  and  Daphne  found  herself  genuinely  interested, 
though  a  good  deal  distressed.  They  all  seemed  so  un- 
satisfactory, and  Lady  Toller  admired  them  all  so  blindly. 
She  talked  mainly  about  Godfrey;  whereas  Daphne  would 
rather  have  heard  about  Herbert,  the  eldest,  whose  ex- 


222  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

istence  she  had  never  realised  before.  Herbert  was  a 
soldier,  out  in  India.  It  seemed  a  strange  career  for  a 
Toller  to  have  chosen;  a  reversion  to  the  Herbert  type 
(Lady  Toller  had  been  a  Herbert)  and  none  the  more 
welcome  on  that  account.  Godfrey,  on  the  other  hand, 
had  chosen  nothing,  or  rather  he  had  chosen  to  do  nothing, 
for  according  to  his  mother  there  was  nothing  he  could  not 
achieve  if  he  did  choose.  He  and  Evangeline  were  her 
favourites. 

If  Lady  Toller's  world  struck  Daphne  as  strange,  that 
of  Juliet  Strode  appeared  even  more  so.  Nigel  had  said  so 
little  about  his  sister  that  she  had  expected  her  to  be 
uninteresting;  but  she  found  that  after  seeing  her,  she 
wondered  about  her.  Juliet  was  not  uninteresting,  but 
she  did  not  seem  to  matter.  It  was  difficult  to  realise  that 
she  had  a  life  of  her  own.  To  realise  that  in  general 
was  not  easy;  to  take  in  the  fact  that  every  single  indi- 
vidual in  the  world  existed  for  himself,  not  as  background 
but  as  centre;  with  Juliet  Strode  it  was  especially  hard. 
She  seemed  consciously  secondary.  She  did  not  come 
before  Daphne  vividly  even  as  the  sister  of  Nigel.  She 
was  not  at  all  like  Nigel,  less  like  him  than  Stephen  was, 
though  Juliet  was  nice,  while  Stephen  was  simply,  for 
Daphne,  a  clergyman,  with  all  that  implied.  And  yet 
Stephen  was  like  Nigel,  in  funny,  teasing  little  ways. 
Daphne  had  nothing  to  say  to  Juliet,  but  she  felt  sorry  for 
her.  Juliet  had  missed  everything.  She  had  even,  though 
his  sister,  missed  Nigel.  She  lived  with  Stephen  and 
hardly  ever  saw  Nigel.  She  knew  nothing  of  his  life, 
shared  none  of  his  ideas.  In  comparison  with  her  Daphne 
felt  herself  curiously  hard  and  modern;  a  greedy  snatcher 
of  good  things  for  herself.  Juliet's  goodness,  her  un- 
selfishness, her  gentleness  were  a  cushion  through  which 
she  could  not  cut.  She  could  not  even  talk  to  Juliet 
about  Nigel.  It  seemed  selfish  to  have  him  and  to  be 
happy,  when  Juliet  had  nothing.  Dimly  she  felt  that 
Juliet  would  have  liked  to  be  told  "all  about  it";  to 
hear  how  Nigel  had  "proposed"  and  what  clothes  she  was 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  223 

going  to  be  married  in.  This,  however,  only  embarrassed 
Daphne  and  caused  her  to  present  a  yet  more  unresponsive 
surface.  She  could  never  talk  of  these  things  easily. 
Least  of  all  now,  when  even  to  think  of  them  seemed 
almost  wrong. 

Juliet's  view  of  the  prospect  of  war  was  that  whatever 
happened  was  the  will  of  God.  Daphne  found  it  impossible 
to  discuss  on  these  lines.  She  finally  came  away,  feel- 
ing baffled  and  inefficient.  Baffled  and  inefficient  she 
still  felt  as  she  leaned  back  in  her  seat  in  the  train  that  was, 
at  last,  slowly  carrying  her  back  to  London,  and  tried  to 
realise  from  the  newspapers  what  really  had  happened  and 
what  was  going  to  happen  and  why.  It  all  seemed  settled, 
but  Daphne  was  as  far  as  ever  from  understanding.  She 
seemed  to  have  fallen  into  a  whirlpool,  entirely  lost  her  hold 
on  things.  The  world  in  which  war  happened  did  not  seem 
the  real  world  at  all.  Yet  after  Grey's  speech  there  was  no» 
room  for  doubt.  It  was  dreadful;  but  of  course  England 
was  bound,  as  he  said,  bound  to  France  and  bound  to  Bel- 
gium. A  lump  rose  in  her  throat  as  she  thought  of  Belgium 
and  its  heroic  people.  There  were  things  that  were 
worse  than  suffering  and  death,  even  the  suffering  and  death 
of  innocent  people. 

She  dropped  the  paper  and  gazed  out  of  the  window,  over 
the  flat  fields,  so  ironically  peaceful  beneath  the  wide  calm 
sky:  field  after  field  of  pale  corn,  shot  through  with  scarlet 
poppies.  The  land  seemed  steeped  in  a  profound  quiet.  The 
air  was  still,  there  were  hardly  any  clouds.  Over  everything 
silence  brooded,  the  happy  silence  of  the  day's  work  done. 
Along  a  road  between  low  green  hedges  she  saw  a  young  labour- 
ing man,  leading  a  big  dappled  cart-horse.  The  man's  hand 
rested  on  the  horse's  neck,  and  the  beast's  head  rubbed  itself 
lovingly  against  him.  The  soft  tones  of  the  labourer's  worn 
corduroys  blended  into  the  landscape  as  the  horse's  coat  did. 
She  saw  them  only  for  an  instant,  before  they  were  lost  amidst 
the  yellow  of  the  corn;  but  her  mind  followed  them  home  to 
where  the  man's  wife  and  child  were  waiting  now  and  watching 
for  his  coming  in  to  the  evening  meal.  Beauty,  tranquil, 


224  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

effortless,  serene,  breathed  over  the  whole  scene.  Suddenly 
its  very  calm,  its  very  happiness  hurt.  Yes,  that  was  England, 
its  very  core  and  essence.  It  was  what  a  man  could  die  for, 
but  how  much  more  what  called  on  him  to  live.  Tears  filled 
Daphne's  eyes  as  she  thought  of  the  hundreds  of  thousands  of 
men  in  Europe,  leaving  just  such  homes  and  fields,  to  go  out, 
filled  with  love  for  them  and  hatred  for  their  brothers;  and  of 
Englishmen,  too,  perhaps  even  now  saying  good-bye,  going  off, 
like  those  others,  to  kill  and  to  be  killed;  and  of  fields  like  these, 
all  trampled  underfoot  and  stained  with  blood,  under  the  same 
tranquil  sky.  Daphne  pressed  her  hands  together.  That  was 
not  how  one  ought  to  think  of  it.  She  picked  up  the  paper 
lying  beside  her  and  tried  to  read  and  realise  what  she  read ;  tried 
to  take  in,  as  she  knew  that  people  with  heads — Nigel,  her 
mother,  Hugh — would  be  taking  in,  the  irresistible  reasons 
which  drove  all  that  rightly  into  the  background.  She  remem- 
bered Grey  as  she  had  once  heard  him,  and  the  immense  ad- 
miration and  confidence  with  which  he  had  filled  her.  But 
the  words  that  came  back  to  her  mind  from  that  occasion  were 
his  statement  that  the  race  of  armaments,  if  it  went  on,  would 
in  the  long  run  break  down  civilisation.  If  he  felt  that — and 
sincere  conviction  had  spoken  in  his  deep  and  measured  utter- 
ance— only  agony  could  have  wrung  from  him  the  conviction 
that  now  war  was  inevitable.  His  speech  was  wonderful — ab- 
solutely convincing.  She  felt  no  doubt  that  he  was  right;  only 
a  glow  of  pride  in  the  man  who  could  see  the  right  when  it  was 
so  horribly  painful,  when  it  spelt  the  failure  of  everything,  and 
go  on,  over  the  burning  ploughshares,  not  crying  out,  simply 
because  he  felt  it  was  his  duty.  But  she  found  she  could  not 
read  the  paper.  Her  head  would  not  work.  The  thing  had 
come — and  she  could  only  sit  absolutely  stunned,  incapable  of 
thinking  and  taking  it  in.  The  world  ought  to  look  different, 
but  it  did  not.  It  looked  just  the  same,  and  the  extent  to  which 
it  looked  the  same  made  it  impossible  not  to  believe,  deep  down, 
that  all  this  nightmare  of  the  newspapers  was  unreal.  She 
tried  again,  hard,  to  follow  the  argument  Sir  Anthony  had  ad- 
umbrated when  he  said  that  there  were  things  worse  than  war. 
Once,  it  now  seemed  long  ago,  she  could,  she  felt  sure,  have 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  225 

said  what  they  were:  it  was  the  realisation  of  those  things  that 
made  great  men,  great  nations;  that  was  what  history  was 
about.  But  now,  somehow,  they  had  vanished.  Silly  tears 
ran  down  her  cheeks.  She  could  only  see  the  young  labourer 
with  the  horse,  see  him  going  away  from  his  home,  going  out 
to  be  killed;  and  his  wife  waiting  and  crying.  Everywhere 
wives  waiting  and  crying,  and  little  children.  But  that  was 
not,  could  not  be,  all  there  was  to  see. 

At  Bishops  Stortford  the  platform  was  lined  with  men  in 
khaki — fair-haired,  pink-cheeked  young  men  they  all  looked, 
smart,  erect,  smiling.  They  shouldered  their  heavy  sacks  as  the 
train  drew  up,  and  somehow  all  disappeared  into  it.  Daphne 
almost  wished  they  had  got  into  her  carriage;  but  Lady  Toller 
had  insisted  on  her  going  first-class,  because  it  was  so  late, 
after  seven,  and  she  continued  to  be  alone.  Slowly  the  summer 
dusk  gathered,  gradually  shrouding  the  landscape  in  a  thicken- 
ing mist.  By  the  time  they  had  begun  to  enter  the  London 
fringe  it  was  quite  dark.  Bishopsgate  Street  was  black  and 
mysterious,  but  Liverpool  Street  brilliant  with  all  its 
lamps. 

The  first  person  she  saw  was  Nigel,  standing  under  one  of 
the  great  lights.  He  was  still  in  the  grey  suit  and  straw  hat  he 
had  worn  when  he  left  Cambridge,  and  it  gave  Daphne  a  stab 
of  relief  to  see  him  so.  She  might  feel  that  all  the  world  was 
changed,  but  she  did  not  want  that  to  apply  to  Nigel. 

"Oh,  Nigel, "  she  cried  as  soon  as,  descending  from  the  train, 
he  saw  her,  "I  am  so  glad  to  see  you.  ..." 

Nigel  smiled  down  at  her  as  they  began  to  move  slowly  out 
of  the  station,  she  with  her  hand  round  his  arm  and  holding  fast 
on  to  it. 

"Why?"  he  murmured.  "Did  you  think  I  might  have 
disappeared?" 

"Yes.     Don't  you  sometimes  feel  that  about  me? " 

"That  you  may  have  disappeared?  Not  really;  I  have 
an  extraordinarily  strong  conviction  of  your  existence,  you 
see  .  .  . "  he  smiled  down  at  her. 

Daphne  pondered.  Yes,  Nigel  again  was  beyond  her:  his 
faith  even  was  more  complete  than  hers.  She  sighed. 


226  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  said,  "I  do  always  have  the  most 
awful  fear  that  you  may  have  disappeared  when  I  don't  see 
you. " 

"Even  for  so  short  a  time?  Though  it  does  not  seem  short, 
I  admit.  ...  It  seems  incredible  that  only  yesterday  morning 
Sir  Anthony  and  I  sat  in  the  train  and  discussed  it  all  quite 
calmly.  ..." 

Daphne  held  on  tighter  to  his  arm,  for  their  progress  had  been 
arrested  and  they  had  to  stand  back  and  wait.  The  soldiers 
were  being  marshalled,  preparatory  to  marching  out ;  and  now,  as 
the  sharp  word  of  command  rang  out,  after  marking  time  for 
a  minute,  they  began  to  pass.  The  tramp  of  their  feet  shook 
the  platform..  Daphne  felt  Nigel  draw  himself  up  as  they 
passed.  She  saw  his  eyes  shine  and  felt  his  arm  tremble.  Tears 
rose  to  her  own  eyes  as  she  watched,  and  for  a  moment  blurred 
her  sight  completely.  Still  they  passed  on,  row  after  row,  their 
heavy  boots  and  spurs  jangling  on  the  stone.  Nigel  pressed 
her  hand  hard.  Daphne  could  not  say  anything.  She  only 
looked  at  him. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  when  the  last  line  had  passed  them  and  the 
crowd  of  waiting  people  began  to  close  in  behind  the  young 
officer  who  brought  up  the  rear,  "England's  all  right. " 

They  passed  out  of  the  station  into  the  street,  crowded  with 
jostling  people,  full  of  hurrying  traffic.  On  the  pavement  as 
they  emerged  lay  posters  of  the  evening  papers,  and  a  row  of 
boys  held  damp  copies,  snatched  from  them  by  the  people  as 
they  streamed  by.  On  each  poster — yellow,  green,  white, 
pink — were  the  same  words  filling  the  space  with  all  the  empha- 
sis of  the  three  repeated  lines  of  heavy  leaded  capitals — "Eng- 
land's Ultimatum  to  Germany. "  Daphne  stared  at  them,  the 
letters  dancing  before  her  eyes.  The  mist  cleared,  but  it  was 
no  dream.  On  each  the  same — "England's  Ultimatum  to 
Germany." 

Nigel  had  hailed  a  taxi ;  but  Daphne  stood  staring,  unaware 
that  he  was  waiting  for  her  with  the  door  held  open.  The 
words  suddenly  made  clear  to  her  how  little  before  she  had  real- 
ised. All  the  time,  stunned  as  she  was,  unbelief  had  lived;  she 
had  secretly  hoped.  Even  the  soldiers  in  the  station  had  not 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  227 

killed  her  hope.  But  there  it  stared  at  her,  monstrous,  real,  the 
truth. 

In  the  taxi  Nigel  talked,  but  Daphne  hardly  took  in  what 
he  said.  She  heard,  but  the  words  said  nothing.  For  the  first 
time  in  all  her  experience  she  was  with  Nigel  and  hardly  con- 
scious of  him.  They  emerged  from  the  Strand  into  the  open 
space  of  Charing  Cross,  and  it  was  solid  with  people:  people, 
packed  in,  filled  the  square,  sat  on  the  lions  and  on  the  base  of 
the  column.  Up  St.  Martin's  Lane,  Pall  Mall  and  Northumber- 
land Avenue  it  stretched,  the  unbroken  mass,  blocking  the  way. 
Hundreds  and  thousands  of  men  and  women :  a  sea  of  straw  hats : 
waiting.  To  and  fro  it  swayed,  but  the  movement  was  on  top 
of,  did  not  break  up,  the  solid  mass.  Nigel  leaned  forward, 
his  eyes  bright;  but  Daphne  felt  suddenly  afraid — though  the 
crowd  was  silent  its  silence  was  more  alarming  than  noise. 
The  taxi  stopped  opposite  the  station. 

"We  might  as  well  get  out  here,"  Nigel  said.  "We  can 
get  across  to  the  Ship  on  foot.  We'll  have  something  to  eat 
there.  You  must  be  very  hungry. " 

Daphne  looked  round  her  while  he  paid  the  man.  She  was 
not  hungry;  food  seemed  absurd.  But  she  was  frightened  and, 
suddenly,  she  thought  of  her  mother  and  wanted  to  be  at  home. 
She  began  to  murmur  something  of  this,  but  Nigel  did  not  hear 
her. 

"Hang  on  to  my  arm,  tight,"  he  said.  "We'll  get  across 
in  time.  It's  rather  thrilling,  a  big  crowd  like  this,  don't  you 
think?  You'll  never  see  such  a  sight  again.  It's  a  great  thing 
to  have  seen  it. "  He  looked  about  him,  his  head  a  little  thrown 
back.  Daphne  said  nothing,  but  held  his  arm  as  she  was  told. 
She  felt  helpless,  helplessly  dumb:  not  thrilled,  only  afraid. 
Nigel,  whose  height  gave  him  an  advantage  in  enabling  him  to 
see,  was  clever  in  pushing  his  way,  catching  sight  of  the  least 
opening,  going  with  the  general  movement.  Daphne  clung  to 
him.  She  looked  at  the  people  whom  they  jostled  as  they  made 
their  way  through,  and  wondered  what  they  were  like,  what  they 
were  feeling;  shrinking  into  herself  as  young  men  made  loud 
remarks,  or  laughed  at  jokes  which  she  heard  but  did  not  under- 
stand. Most  of  the  people  seemed  to  be  silent.  On  the  back 


228  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

of  one  of  the  lions  a  girl  was  standing,  wrapped  in  a  Union  Jack 
and  with  a  cap  of  Liberty  on  her  head.  She  was  surrounded 
by  a  group  of  young  men  and  girls  all  shouting  and  laughing, 
and  every  now  and  then  she  burst  into  song — music-hall  patter 
song,  varied  by  the  "British  Grenadiers" — the  others  joining  in 
the  chorus.  But  their  noise  and  hilarity  was  in  marked  contrast 
to  the  apathetic  gloom  of  the  mass  of  the  people.  They  looked 
as  if  they  had  always  stood  there  and  would  always  go  on  stand- 
ing there. 

"Nigel,  what  are  they  all  waiting  for?"  she  asked  as  they 
paused  on  an  island. 

"To  hear  the  reply  to  our  ultimatum,  I  suppose:  the 
declaration  of  war. " 

"War  with  Germany?" 

Nigel  nodded.  Daphne  found  herself  staring  into  the  faces 
of  two  sombre  looking  young  men,  held  up  like  themselves  on 
the  island.  Something  in  their  eyes  struck  her  as  more  miser- 
ably helpless  than  any  she  had  yet  met,  and  she  looked  at  them 
more  carefully.  They  were  about  the  same  height ;  small,  with 
very  sleek  hair,  one  dark,  the  other  light;  little  bristling  mous- 
taches and  neat  suits  cut  rather  low  in  front.  They  looked  like 
waiters;  perhaps  they  were  Germans.  Of  course  they  were 
Germans;  she  realised  it  in  a  moment.  Germans  in  the  midst 
of  that  huge  crowd  waiting  to  know  whether  England  was  going 
to  war  with  Germany.  She  felt  sorry  for  them,  and  would  have 
spoken  had  shebeen  able  to  think  of  anything  to  say.  But  noth- 
ing came.  In  another  minute  Nigel  had  seen  his  opportunity; 
they  were  struggling  across  Whitehall,  really  struggling,  for  the 
crowd  wasmoving  down  to  Westminster  and  they  had  to  cut  across 
it.  Buffeted  and  bruised  in  flesh  as  well  as  spirit  they  landed 
on  the  pavement.  Daphne,  with  her  hat  all  over  one  eye,  feel- 
ing irritated  and  degraded,  found  to  her  surprise  that  Nigel  ap- 
peared exhilarated.  He  evidently  did  find  a  crowd  "thrilling" 
as  he  had  said. 

It  was  after  nine  o'clock  and  the  "Ship"  empty  and  quiet, 
an  emptiness  and  a  quiet  for  which  Daphne  was  thankful.  She 
was  glad  to  lean  back,  her  face  away  from  the  window,  and 
would  have  been  still  more  glad  if  there  had  not  come  in  at  it 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  229 

the  incessant  roar  of  the  street  below,  which  seemed  now  to 
grow  louder  and  more  menacing  every  moment.  She  wanted 
an  interval  of  quiet,  and  she  wanted,  above  all,  the  sense  of 
being  with  Nigel  again.  She  had  been  with  him  for  the  last 
forty  minutes,  but  under  conditions  that  denied  all  reality  to 
their  companionship;  she  wanted  the  sense  of  that  renewed. 
The  last  few  days  had  so  broken  in  upon  it.  She  did  not  know 
where  Nigel  was,  and  even  less  where  she  was  herself.  She 
wanted  him  to  tell  her  where  she  was  as  only  he  could  do. 

Nigel  was  recalled  from  the  window,  out  of  which  he  had 
been  staring,  by  the  waiter;  after  ordering  something  to  eat 
that  could  come  quickly,  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  His 
cheeks,  Daphne  saw,  were  flushed;  his  eyes,  bright  with  excite- 
ment, wandered  away  from  her  over  the  room.  She  held  out  her 
hand  with  the  intention  of  laying  it  over  his,  to  call  his  attention 
and  make  him  speak  to  her;  but  the  motion  was  arrested  in  the 
act,  for  he  had  half  risen  to  his  feet  to  speak  to  some  one  who 
had  just  come  in.  It  was  Ned  Coventry;  but  his  blond, 
inexpressive  face  was  so  worn  and  haggard  that  Daphne 
hardly  recognized  him,  even  when  he  came  right  up  to  their 
table. 

"You're  the  very  man!"  cried  Nigel.  "You  can  tell  us 
everything.  Sit  down  here!" 

Coventry  dropped  wearily  into  the  chair  beside  Strode. 

"What  do  you  want  to  know?"  he  asked,  dropping  his 
hat  on  an  adjoining  table  and  passing  a  hand  over  a  damp 
brow. 

"Why — the  answer  to  our  ultimatum." 

Coventry  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Answer?  What  answer  could  there  be?  Goschen  asked 
for  his  passports  at  seven  this  evening.  .  .  .  They're  howling 
round  the  Embassy  in  Berlin  now,  I  expect. " 

There  was  a  short  silence.  The  waiter  brought  food  and 
Nigel  helped  it. 

"Champagne,"  said  Coventry,  hardly  scanning  the  wine 
list.  "I'm  half  dead,"  he  explained  to  Daphne.  "I  haven't 
been  to  bed  for  three  nights.  I  don't  know  when  Grey  last 
slept.  He  can  sleep  now. " 


230  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

"Yes,"  cried  Nigel  with  enthusiasm.  "He  has  been 
splendid."  Coventry  seemed  too  weary  to  respond. 

The  champagne  was  brought.  Nigel,  filling  glasses,  raised 
his,  crying  with  a  smile,  "  Der  Tag. " 

Coventry  gave  a  faint  smile  as  he  clinked  his  glass  against 
the  other's.  Daphne  looked  at  them:  they  both  seemed  unreal, 
the  whole  scene  part  of  a  dream.  A  silence  followed,  in  which 
they  ate.  Food  evidently  revived  the  weary  civil  servant,  for 
he  said,  in  an  almost  envious  tone — 

"You  seem  in  great  form,  Strode.  I  suppose  all  this  appeals 
to  you  as  a  journalist?" 

Daphne  gave  an  involuntary  shudder. 

"Journalist?  Oh,  no,  it'll  ruin  us  ...  I  hope  I  feel  it  as 
a  man.  After  all  these  years  of  unreality  and  sham  a  big  thing 
like  this  gives  one  the  sense  of  having  escaped  out  of  a  tunnel 
into  the  air. "  He  waved  his  hand  to  indicate  the  people.  "All 
this  tension,  the  crowds  of  people  everywhere  all  feeling  and 
thinking  the  same,  the  silent  intensity  of  it — I  have  never  felt 
England  before.  I  was  in  the  House  yesterday  with  Anthony 
Toller — we  heard  Grey.  It  was  the  most  wonderful  ex- 
perience. I  never  felt  anything  like  it.  I  was  absolutely 
carried  away.  Grey  could  have  made  us  do  whatever  he 
wanted. " 

"Yes,"  said  Coventry,  without  expression.  Nigel  looked 
at  him. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  you  people  are  blase,  you  get  too  near  the 
thing  to  feel  it. "  Coventry  rubbed  his  brow. 

"You'll  know  how  we  feel  in  a  couple  of  days,  when  the 
dispatches  come  out.  ...  I  can  assure  you  the  last  week  has 
been  one  continuous  nightmare."  Nigel  nodded. 

"Yes.     But  we've  waked  up  now. " 

A  burst  of  shouting  suddenly  rent  the  air.  They  turned 
to  the  window,  but  could  see  nothing. 

"It's  only  some  one  going  into  the  Admiralty,  I  expect," 
said  Coventry.  "Winston  perhaps." 

"Daphne,  are  you  going  to  sleep?"  said  Nigel,  turning  to 
her.  "You  haven't  said  anything  for  a  very  long  time. " 

Daphne  shook  her  head. 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  231 

"No,  I'm  not  sleepy.  But  I  can't  take  it  in.  It  seems  to 
me  .  .  .  awful." 

"Awful?  Yes,  it  is  awful.  But  grand,  magnificent,  real. " 
Nigel  drained  his  glass.  "  Let's  go  out. " 

Daphne  looked  up  at  him. 

"Not  into  the  crowd,  Nigel.  I'm  tired,  it  frightens  me. 
Let  me  go  home. " 

Nigel  patted  her  gently  on  the  shoulder. 

"Poor  child!"  he  said  kindly.  "It's  too  much  for  you  all 
this,  isn't  it?"  Daphne  nodded. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "it  is.  But  you  want  to  stay,  Nigel. 
Don't  bother  about  me.  I  can  get  home  all  right. " 

"If  you're  going  to  Kensington,  Miss  Leonard,  I'll  take 
you  down,  I'm  going  that  way  myself.  I  dare  say  we  can  get 
through  on  to  the  Embankment,"  said  Ned  Coventry. 

But  when  they  emerged  from  the  restaurant  into  Whitehall 
any  chance  of  getting  anywhere  seemed  gone.  The  noise  which 
had  broken  in  before  was  evidently  only  the  forerunner  of  a  big 
movement,  and  now,  up  from  the  Strand,  from  Northumberland 
Avenue,  from  Pall  Mall,  a  vast  concourse  of  people  came  that 
swelled  out  into  a  mob  in  Trafalgar  Square  and  swept  on,  thence, 
down  Whitehall;  a  mob  of  people  and  an  indescribable  inferno 
of  sound.  They  were  a  strange  and  motley  collection:  mostly 
men,  and  men  of  the  roughest;  a  few  women  and  excited  girls; 
a  few  men  in  miscellaneous  uniforms.  Every  other  individual 
seemed  to  be  armed  with  some  kind  of  instrument,  mouth 
organs,  concertinas,  penny  whistles,  tin  trumpets,  gongs  and 
combs:  any  and  every  vehicle  of  noise.  Others  carried  ban- 
ners, mostly  battered  Union  Jacks.  From  time  to  time  they 
burst  into  unintelligible  song.  Along  the  side  of  the  main  body 
of  the  procession,  if  it  could  be  so  called,  there  ran  boys  waving 
small  flags,  caps  or  coloured  handkerchiefs.  They  kept  up  a 
running  accompaniment  in  which  all  the  others  from  time  to  time 
joined,  of  a  single  word — "War.  War.  War."  Incessant, 
monotonous,  sinister,  that  cry  rang  clear  above  all  the  other 
noises,  loud  and  raucous  as  they  were,  until  it  seemed  to  gather 
them  all  up  into  itself.  People  standing  in  the  crowd  were  by 
its  power  swept  into  the  procession  and  came  on  with  it,  yelling 


232  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

in  their  turn — "War.  War.  War."  As  they  came  on  down 
Whitehall  the  din  was  tremendous;  the  whole  wide  street 
seemed  to  have  become  part  of  the  seething,  hideously  shouting 
mass,  all  crying,  as  with  one  hungry  bloodhound  throat — "War. 
War.  War." 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 

ENTERING  on  Wednesday  morning  the  large  building  in 
which  the  New  World  Office  was  situated,  Nigel  Strode 
surveyed  it  with  a  sense  that  it  was  a  long  time  since  he 
had  last  been  there,  so  long  indeed  that  he  looked  about  him  ex- 
pecting to  find  it  somehow  changed.  It  seemed  odd  to  see  the  same 
porter,  to  go  up  in  the  same  lift,  to  pass  on  the  upward  way  all 
the  old  doors  with  the  old  notices  on  them,  suggesting  that, 
behind,  business  was  going  on  as  usual.  It  was  really  only  four 
days  since  he  had  been  busy  at  his  desk  reading  proof-sheets, 
weighing  and  measuring  the  sentences  in  which  he  had  tried  to 
estimate  the  gravity  of  the  crisis  and  express  hopes  that  might 
not  look  ridiculous  read  in  cold  columns  the  next  day.  They 
had  looked  ridiculous;  and  yet  it  was  only  four  days  ago.  In 
those  four  days  the  whole  face  of  life  had  changed,  who  could 
say  for  how  long?  A  portent  had  risen  in  the  East  and  ex- 
panded, under  their  awed  and  terrified  gaze,  into  a  new  Sun, 
under  whose  burning  light  all  the  old  forms  of  existence  had 
withered,  and  now  looked  absurd  and  irrelevant.  One  could 
not  tell,  yet,  what  the  new  world  was  going  to  be;  but  it  was 
utterly  unlike  the  old.  One  had  to  start  afresh,  with  new  stand- 
ards, new  eyes  adjusted  to  these  strange  conditions  of  vision.  It 
was  a  tremendous  prospect.  Nigel  could  not  feel,  as  he  ex- 
amined his  own  mind,  that  he  regretted  the  old  world.  It  had 
been  pleasant  enough,  but  small  and,  in  retrospect,  strangely 
empty.  Besides,  what  was  the  good  of  looking  backward? 
One  wanted  to  visualise  the  new  forms,  created  by  this  fierce  and 
terrible  illumination;  to  rise  to  the  height  of  its  demands  and 
experiences.  That  was  an  opportunity  thrilling  and  majestic. 

233 


234  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

Nigel  walked  quickly  along  the  corridor,  his  fingers  itching  for 
his  pen.  These  were  thoughts  that  demanded  to  be  expressed. 
There  were  plenty  of  people  who  would  be  frightened:  but  he 
felt  something  quite  different  from  fright;  and  to  put  it  into 
word  would  sustain  and  continue  his  feelings. 

He  could  go  straight  into  his  own  room,  or  pass  into  it 
through  a  door  on  the  right  which  gave  into  a  larger  one  in 
which  Jeffries  and  Robinson  sat.  The  sound  of  voices  within 
inclined  him  to  choose  that  way. 

Robinson,  a  short  red-haired  man  with  very  prominent  false 
teeth  and  an  eager  snub  nose,  was  standing  with  his  back  to 
the  window,  hands  in  pocket  and  a  pipe  between  his  teeth. 
Jeffries,  tall,  slight  and  rather  good-looking,  sat  on  the  table, 
swinging  his  feet  in  dangerous  proximity  to  Matheson,  who 
was  hunched  up,  his  chin  on  the  back  of  a  chair,  his  legs 
across  it.  Matheson  was  a  good  deal  older  than  the  other 
two,  though  not  so  old  as  his  grizzled  beard  and  greying  hair 
suggested. 

"Of  course,"  Robinson  was  saying  in  his  loud  unmodulated 
voice,  "the  Banks  have  behaved  abominably — the  Joint  Stock 
Banks,  I  mean.  Simply  lost  their  heads  and  thought  of  nothing 
but  themselves." 

"Banks?"  Matheson  looked  up.  "Who  cares  about  the 
Banks?  This  is  the  end  of  civilisation. " 

"What  I  want  to  know,"  piped  in  Jeffries,  in  his  slow  clear 
drawl,  "is  why  those  fellows  resigned?  What  on  earth  did  they 
think  we  could  do:  sit  and  wait  till  Germany  had  walked  over 
the  others  and  then  came  on  and  walked  over  us?  The  French 
Army  is  no  good,  is  it,  Matheson?" 

"The  men  are  all  right,"  Matheson  looked  up,  "but  the 
whole  system's  rotten  with  corruption.  I  wouldn't  guarantee 
that  any  one's  got  a  boot  that  fits  him.  .  .  .  And  as  for  going  off 
to  Alsace,  it's  madness,  sheer  madness. " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  cried  Jeffries.  "The  Belgians  are 
evidently  much  better  fighters  than  we  thought,  and  we  shall 
be  on  the  spot  in  no  time. " 

Nigel  had  greeted  them  with  a  nod  and  paused  to  listen  as 
he  hung  up  his  hat.  But  he  did  not  feel  much  inclination  to 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  235 

join  in.  They  had  gone  off  on  to  points  of  detail,  which  were 
not  the  points  that  interested  him. 

Matheson  got  up. 

"  I  understand  there  will  be  official  papers  out  to-morrow  or 
Friday,"  he  said.  "The  negotiations.  .  .  .  But  not,  I'm 
afraid,  in  time  for  us  to  handle  them?  " 

"Oh  no,"  said  Nigel  quickly.  "We  want,  this  week,  to 
handle  the  thing  broadly.  .  .  .  Come  in,  in  an  hour  or  so, 
Robinson,  and  we  can  discuss  what  we  ought  to  say  about  the 
financial  situation." 

"You'll  have  to  try  to  convert  him,  Robinson,"  murmured 
Jeffries  as  the  door  shut. 

"Oh,  he'll  see  the  point  all  right.  The  editor's  jolly  sharp, 
knows  a  lot  more  about  finance  than  you'd  think.  You  should 
see  him  dictating  on  the  Exchanges — you  know  how  Davis 
used  to  have  to  work  it  all  out?  Well,  Strode  just  sits  there  and 
dictates  as  clearly  as  if  it  were  A  B  C. " 

"Yes,"  said  Jeffries,  "his  mind's  wonderfully  quick,  isn't 
it?" 

"Another  thing,"  Robinson  went  on,  "about  him  is  he 
knows  what  the  week's  topic  is  going  to  be — Davis  never  did. 
But  the  New  World's  on  it  every  time  now.  .  .  .  Davis  was  a 
crank  in  some  ways:  I'm  glad  he's  not  here.  He'd  take  a  queer 
line;  like  you,  Matheson." 

Matheson  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  don't  take  any  line,"  he  said,  "but  I  don't  expect  every- 
thing to  stand  on  its  head.  People  will  want  profits  just  the 
same;  look  after  their  own  interests  just  the  same;  and  say  to 
all  the  others,  'You  began  it,  yah! '  That's  all  we're  doing. " 

"Well,"  cried  Jeffries  eagerly.     "So  they  did  begin  it." 

Matheson,  who  began  to  move  away,  cut  across  his  eager- 
ness. "All  right,  Bill,"  he  said.  "You'll  be  a  good  journalist 
in  time.  Suggest  to  Strode  a  leader  called  'They  Began  It' — 
he'd  like  it.  Only  you  must  phrase  it  better." 

Nigel  had  hardly  sat  down  at  his  desk  when  the  office  boy 
appeared  to  ask  whether  Mr.  Jenkins  could  speak  to  him  for  a 
moment.  Nigel  frowned.  The  thread  of  his  ideas  had  been 
broken  by  the  irrelevancies  of  the  outer  office:  this  mterrup- 


236  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

tion  was  worse.  Jenkins  had  been  doing  quite  well  since  his 
warning  some  months  past ;  but  a  desire  to  speak  with  the  editor 
so  early  in  the  week  suggested  complications.  However,  he 
had  better  get  him  over. 

" All  right, "  he  said.     "I'll  see  him  now. " 

Jenkins  appeared.  He  looked  pink  as  before,  but  a  rather 
brighter  pink,  and  his  little  mouth  was  set  in  a  firmer  line. 

"Well,  Jenkins,"  said  Nigel,  affably  enough.  "Not  been 
getting  into  any  more  trouble,  I  hope. " 

Jenkins  inspected  the  carpet. 

"No,  sir,  not  exactly. "     He  paused. 

Nigel  smiled.  "You  mean  you've  not,  strictly  speaking, 
got  out  of  it?  " 

Jenkins  raised  his  eyes.  He  evidently,  except  under  the 
stress  of  strong  emotion,  found  it  difficult  to  touch  on  such 
matters  with  the  editor.  There  was  a  short  pause.  Jenkins 
cleared  his  throat. 

"The  fact  is,  sir,  I  want,  if  you'll  allow  me,  to  apply  for  a 
commission.  I  have  done  a  certain  amount  of  training  and  I 
have  some  influence."  He  hesitated.  Nigel  looked  hard  at 
him  now.  So  that  was  what  had  so  visibly  perked  Jenkins  up: 
for  he  was  perked  up. 

"It  does  you  great  credit,  I  think,  Jenkins,"  he  began. 

"Oh  no,  sir,"  Jenkins  interposed.  "I'm  afraid  not,  sir. 
I  shouldn't  like  you  to  think  better  of  me  than  I  deserve.  .  .  . 
But  it's  a  way  out,  sir.  I  didn't  see  any,  you  know,  but  now 
I  do." 

"  I  see, "  said  Nigel.  He  did.  To  Jenkins  the  war  was  not 
a  great  national  call;  he  was  not  pondering  sublime  thoughts 
about  his  duty  to  his  country  or  the  world.  The  character  of 
the  war  was  nothing  to  him.  It  was  simply  a  way  out.  He 
could  leave  his  debts,  his  entanglements,  his  absurd  passion; 
cut  the  knots  that  bound  him  so  hopelessly,  and  escape. 

"I  certainly  would  not  stand  in  your  way,  Jenkins.  You 
will  be  doing  the  right  thing,  whatever  your  motives.  As  to  the 
business  side  of  the  matter,  I  must  talk  it  over  with  the  directors; 
but  I  am  sure  they  will  want  to  do  the  right  thing.  You're 
not  married?" 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  237 

"Oh,  yes,  sir,"  said  Jenkins.     "Unfortunately  I  am." 

Nigel  glanced  quickly  at  him,  but  Jenkins  seemed  to  have 
spoken  without  irony.  He  dismissed  him  with  a  promise  to 
let  him  know  the  directors'  decision  and  an  instruction  to 
speak  to  Mr.  Brown. 

Jenkins  certainly  had  made  hay  of  his  ideas.  He  wrote 
a  sentence  and  scratched  it  out.  Another  fared  no  better. 
He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  feeling  annoyed.  Nothing 
occurred  to  him  but  the  banalities  that  had  decorated 
all  the  leading  articles  he  had  read  this  morning.  This 
would  not  do.  He  looked  at  his  watch  and  decided 
to  go  and  see  Sir  Anthony  Toller.  Sir  Anthony  would  not 
have  lapsed  from  the  splendid  exaltation  of  yesterday.  He 
was  not  exposed  to  the  petty  irritations  inseparable  from 
making  a  living. 

Before  going  out,  however,  he  decided  to  ring  up  Daphne 
and  inquire  whether  she  had  got  home  all  right  after  the  ex- 
citements of  Tuesday  night.  Oh  yes,  Daphne  assured 
him,  Mr.  Coventry  had  taken  great  care  of  her,  and  seen 
her  right  to  the  door.  Her  voice  sounded  to  Nigel  rather 
flat  and  weary,  she  too  was  suffering  from  reaction  per- 
haps. "Are  you  very  tired?"  he  asked.  Not  tired, 
Daphne  -said,  but  her  mother  was  not  at  all  well.  Indeed 
Daphne  had  persuaded  her  to  stay  in  bed.  Nigel  hesi- 
tated. "I'm  afraid,"  he  said,  "I  can't  suggest  coming  up 
till  after  Friday.  We  shall  be  dreadfully  busy;  a  short  week, 
you  see,  and  so  much  to  get  in."  Daphne  quite  un- 
derstood; but  as  Nigel  hung  up  the  receiver  he  felt 
his  own  sense  of  reaction  increased,  not  lifted.  Why 
was  that?  Must  it  really  die,  the  thrilling  exaltation 
he  had  felt  all  Tuesday  as  he  walked  about  the  crowds?  It 
was  akin  to  what  he  had  known  in  the  first  days  of 
his  engagement:  must  it  fade,  as  that  had  faded?  It 
was  blasphemy  to  measure  or  examine  sensations  divine 
in  their  essence.  But  it  was  also  folly  to  refuse  to  admit  the 
change  that  must  come  over  them:  Nigel  knew  that 
change  in  himself.  Gradually,  gently,  his  days  had  re- 
sumed their  normal  tenor.  The  old  sense  of  the  length 


238  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

of  time,  even  of  its  weariness,  had  come  back.  He  could 
not  have  assigned  a  date  to  the  beginning  of  the  process  by 
which  the  normal  tempo  had  been  restored;  or  rather, 
since  it  was  a  subject  of  painful  rather  than  pleasant 
investigation,  he  let  it  lie.  But  on  the  Sunday  spent 
at  the  Tenacre  woods,  the  Sunday  now  marked  as  the 
date  of  the  Austrian  ultimatum,  its  achievement  had 
risen  up  before  him  and  made  him  sad.  Sad  because  it 
drove  home  to  him  the  sense  of  something  wanting — 
wanting  in  himself.  Over  Daphne  no  change  had  come. 
Over  him  it  had.  She  had  something  which  he  had  not.  What 
it  was  he  did  not  know.  He  loved  her,  of  course,  but 
neither  his  love  for  her  nor  hers  for  him  had  proved 
able  to  hold  fast  for  him  that  first  singing  glow.  It  had  failed 
and  faded,  that  ecstasy,  because  it  depended  on  him; 
and  it  was  of  the  nature  of  merely  individual  feeling 
to  pass  through  stages.  To  the  top  notes  of  the  scale 
there  succeeded  others,  beautiful  in  their  way,  but  dif- 
ferent. One  could  not  live,  in  one's  personal  life,  on 
the  top  note.  One  should  not  even  want  to  do  so.  It 
was  selfishness,  however  lovely  its  disguise.  But  a  great 
world  movement  was  another  thing.  Its  source  was  mightier, 
and  mightier  surely  its  hold.  It  was  real,  as  no  feeling  of 
one's  own  only  could  be. 

As  he  walked  along  the  Embankment  on  his  way  to  the 
National  Liberal  Club,  Nigel  pondered  thus  and  told 
himself  that  the  sense  of  reality  given  him  by  this  vast  up- 
heaval of  all  the  ordered  life  of  Europe  was  a  sense 
that  could  and  should  last.  For  ordered  life  was  a  life 
of  burden,  of  weariness,  of  boredom,  of  insufficiency,  a 
life  limited  and  barred  within  the  narrow  bounds  of  self.  War 
burst  those  bounds,  swept  them  away  with  its  terrific 
tide  of  new,  incredible,  uncomprehended  passions;  pas- 
sions that  carried  the  stamp  of  a  superhuman  reality 
in  their  vastness  and  their  range.  The  self  of  every  indi- 
vidual was  submerged  in  and  transcended  by  this  great 
new  entity  of  the  nation.  All  this  terrified  Daphne. 
She  could  not  take  it  in.  She  shrank  away  from  it.  But 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  239 

Nigel  felt  himself  rushing  out  into  the  waves,  drawing 
strength  from  the  salt  and  stinging  buffets  against  his 
face.  It  stirred  and  stimulated  him  to  feel  himself  throb- 
bing with  the  beat  of  a  mightier  heart.  Grey's  speech 
had  been  to  him  a  kind  of  trumpet  call;  Sir  Anthony  had 
made  it  sound  again;  he  would  revive  whatever  had  been 
dulled  of  its  first  clearness. 

Although  it  was  nearly  noon,  Sir  Anthony  Toller  was 
still  in  bed.  Nevertheless  he  sent  down  a  message  in- 
viting his  visitor  to  come  up,  and  explained  when  Nigel 
entered  his  room  that  he  was  merely  rather  tired  and  a  little 
asthmatic. 

He  was  sitting  bolt  upright  in  bed,  well  propped  up  with 
a  mass  of  white  pillows  against  which  he  certainly  appeared 
frail  enough,  with  his  parchment  pale  face,  surrounded  by 
its  halo  of  snowy  hair,  showing  every  line  and  furrow  in  the 
strong  sun  that  streamed  in  upon  the  bed.  Frail  he 
looked,  but  not  tired;  his  pale  eyes  glinted  almost  fever- 
ishly, and  all  around  were  the  signs  of  restless  activity. 
On  a  chair  beside  him  lay  his  breakfast,  hardly  touched. 
The  coverlet  of  the  bed  was  hidden  by  papers  of  all 
kinds,  letters  and  writing  materials.  On  his  knee  he  held 
a  stout  pad,  on  which  he  was  writing  with  a  fountain  pen 
when  Nigel  came  in. 

"Well,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  holding  out  a  bony  hand 
on  which  blue  veins  stood  up.  "This  is  an  extraordinary 
moment.  Were  you  in  the  streets  last  night?  I  hope  to  hear 
all  about  it  from  you.  How  did  the  people  take  it  all?  Sol- 
emnly, soberly  as  they  ought?" 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Nigel.  "Yes,  on  the  whole.  Of  course 
there  were  some  roughs,  making  a  row.  But  otherwise  they 
were  extraordinarily  calm.  It  was  rather  wonderful,  the 
whole  thing,  to  feel  that  great  silent  current  moving 
every  one." 

Sir  Anthony  nodded.  His  eyes  opened  and  shut 
quickly,  as  they  did  when  his  mind  was  working  hard.  Nigel 
went  on. 

"It  suddenly  came  on  me  on  Tuesday,  as  I  stood  in  the 


240  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

crowd,  what  it  really  means  being  part  of  a  nation.  One 
can't  get  over  it;  it's  something  very  deep  down,  that  thrills 
when  it's  stirred." 

"Get  over  it?"  interrupted  Sir  Anthony.  "No.  Thank 
God,  no." 

Nigel  looked  at  him,  with  a  sense  of  reviving  glow. 

"It's  the  root  of  everything  that's  strong  and  splendid," 
Sir  Anthony  went  on.  "The  greatest  of  the  great  simple 
emotions  out  of  which  all  that  ultimately  matters  springs." 

"Of  course,",  said  Nigel  slowly,  "I  do  feel  war  is 
horrible." 

But  Sir  Anthony  interrupted. 

"There's  nothing  really  horrible.  It's  all  how  one 
takes  it.  If  a  nation  can  go  into  war  with  pure  hands 
and  high  intentions,  it  can  transform  war,  make  it  an 
instrument  of  moral  regeneration  for  itself  and  to  the 
world  the  trumpet  call  of  freedom.  .  .  .  Chat's  why  j 
feel  so  strongly — I've  been  trying  to  express  it  just  now,  in 
this  letter  I'm  writing  to  The  Times — that  one  must 
try  to  see  this  tremendous  thing  greatly.  There  will  be  plenty 
of  people  ready  to  carp  and  criticise,  plenty  of  cynics 
who'll  only  see  the  evil.  But  such  sight  is  narrow.  We 
didn't  want  war:  Grey  struggled  against  it  to  the  last. 
But  honour  called  us,  honour  and  the  demand  to  de- 
fend all  we  hold  sacred  against  Prussianism.  A  war  against 
Prussia,  for  Belgium,  is  a  sacred  war.  One  must  hold  on  to 
that." 

Nigel  listened,  eagerly.  Yes,  Sir  Anthony  was  right. 
He  sanctioned,  he  ennobled,  those  vague  but  exalted  feel- 
ings that  Nigel  had  known  as  he  stood  in  the  crowd. 
It  was  something  more  than  the  mere  sense  of  being  one 
of  a  concourse  of  people,  feeling  as  they  felt,  swept  by 
the  vast  diapason  of  common  emotion.  The  terror,  the 
pity,  the  fury,  the  joy  that  had  moved  and  lifted  him 
had  moved  and  lifted  them;  and  the  brooding  horror 
behind  only  made  the  whole  thing  more  tremendous, 
giving  to  it  all  the  dignity  of  tragedy  on  a  scale  never 
staged  before.  Nothing  so  real  had  ever  happened  in  the 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  241 

life  of  any  man  now  living;  and  from  horror  Nigel  felt 
himself  swinging  to  a  kind  of  joy — joy  in  his  own  intimate 
awareness  of  it  all,  the  sense  it  gave  him  of  being  at  the  core 
of  prodigious  life  forces.  And  Sir  Anthony  gave  to  that  joy 
an  almost  sacred  tinge.  It  was  not  only  real,  it  was  capable 
of  being  infinitely  noble. 

"I'm  sure  all  the  country  wants" — he  came  back  into 
the  room  from  the  window  and  returned  to  Sir  Anthony — 
"is  to  understand  what  the  issue  really  is." 

"It's  a  great  moral  affirmation."  Sir  Anthony  had  re- 
turned to  his  pad,  from  which  he  now  looked  up.  "We 
stand  for  spiritual  value  against  brute  force.  .  .  .  You 
have  a  great  opportunity  in  your  hands,  Nigel,  through 
your  paper.  .  .  .  Every  one  has  in  his  own  degree  the  op- 
portunity— the  opportunity  of  not  letting  this  tremendous 
event  be  lost  upon  him.  We  can't  all  fight — but  we  can  all 
feel  it." 

He  drew  himself  up  and  punched  his  pillows  as  if  they 
were  enemy  heads.  Nigel  looking  at  him,  felt  for  the  first 
time  something  almost  like  a  doubt.  Was  it  conceivable 
that  Sir  Anthony  was  enjoying  it?  He  dismissed  the 
thought  as  unworthy.  One  could  not  deny  a  certain 
quality  of  aesthetic  satisfaction  to  anything  so  huge  and 
so  dramatic.  Of  enjoyment  in  the  ordinary  sense,  there 
was  no  question.  Exaltation,  the  glow  of  purpose,  was  an- 
other thing. 

Descending  to  the  lunch-room,  he  ran  up  against  Alan 
Mottershaw.  Mottershaw  felt  the  war  just  as  he  ought, 
but  he  had  already  got  on  to  inoculation.  He  foresaw  an 
attempt  to  force  inoculation  upon  everybody,  and  tried  to 
persuade  Nigel  to  sign  an  anti-inoculation  letter  he  was  writing 
to  the  papers. 

"In  a  war  like  this,  where  our  cause  is  just,  where  we 
are  definitely  carrying  the  Banner  of  the  Good  against  the 
Powers  of  Evil"  (Mottershaw  always  spoke  of  the  Good 
with  a  capital  G:  it  was  presumably  a  more  advanced 
way  of  referring  to  God),  "we  ought  to  reject  all  forms 
of  falsehood,  all  distrust.  Our  faith  is  our  strength.  If  our 


242  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

hearts  are  pure,  as  our  cause  is,  no  harm  can  come  to  us.  To 
rely  on  inoculation  (apart  from  the  purely  medical  evi- 
dence of  its  worthlessness)  is  the  abandonment  of  our 
higher  claim." 

Nigel  looking  into  his  large  blank  eyes  felt  that  it 
would  be  unfair  to  remind  him  that  death  and  disease 
were  the  normal  incidents  of  war.  Before  his  inoculation 
letter  he  fled.  He  promised  Mottershaw,  however,  to  use 
such  influence  as  he  possessed  to  get  him  a  commission  in 
the  R.A.M.C.  His  owning  a  useful  motor-car  might  com- 
pensate for  his  views.  But  it  was  a  pity  that  so  many 
people  who  thought  rightly  would  clothe  their  views  in 
such  unfortunate  formula;!.  Mottershaw's  remarks  about 
the  Banner  of  the  Good  made  him  a  little  uncomfortable. 
Mottershaw  had  no  sense  of  style:  Christian  Scientists 
very  seldom  had,  for  some  reason  or  other.  He  was 
somehow  rather  soft  and  woolly  altogether,  Mottershaw, 
and  Nigel  was  rather  glad  when  he  departed  immediately 
after  lunch.  He  himself  sat  on  in  the  smoke-room,  turn- 
ing over  the  pages  of  the  papers  and  half  listening  to 
the  conversation  of  a  group  of  men,  most  of  whom  he  knew 
slightly,  though  not  well  enough  to  feel  any  inclination  to 
join  them. 

They  were  talking  about  the  Germans  and  revealing  a 
hatred  of  them  that  surprised  Nigel.  He  had  never 
suspected  any  of  them  of  any  prejudice  of  the  kind, 
except  perhaps  the  stout  little  valetudinarian  who  went  every 
year  to  Homburg  for  a  cure  and  was  there  taken,  to 
his  infinite  disgust,  for  a  German  arid  a  Jew  to  boot; 
a  mistake  not  very  surprising  since  his  name  was  Schwarze 
and  his  looks  matched  his  name.  The  others  were  normal 
easy-going  people,  not  apt  to  be  much  excited  about 
anything,  liberals,  minor  intellectuals  of  sorts,  people 
who  always  abused  the  Government  and  knew  no  phrase 
of  deeper  contempt  for  a  person  or  an  institution  than  that 
of  being  "hopelessly  British."  Now  all  that  had  gone. 
To  be  British  was  to  be  everything;  to  be  German  an- 
athema. 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  243 

Nigel  wondered  as  he  listened.  He  felt  no  hatred  for 
the  Germans;  to  hate  them  seemed  to  belittle  the  whole  mean- 
ing of  what  was  happening  and  lower  the  plane  of  feel- 
ing and  of  action.  He  felt  lifted  far  above  anger  or 
hate.  But  it  was  clear  already  that  unity  of  purpose  by 
no  means  ruled  out  a  rich  and  interesting  diversity  of  view. 

Bent  on  the  register  of  opinion,  Nigel  turned  in,  on  his 
way  home  that  evening,  to  see  the  Nugents,  who  had  been 
at  Tenacre  and  only  that  afternoon  got  back  to  town. 
They  were,  however,  disappointing,  dull  and  matter-of- 
fact.  The  war  was  not  apparently  a  great  spiritual  adven- 
ture to  them  or  anything  great  at  all.  They  said  in 
a  perfunctory  way  that  it  was  "perfectly  appalling":  that 
was  all.  Their  attitude  was  that  of  Jeffries  and  Rob- 
inson. Edgar  refused  to  be  interested  in  the  members 
of  the  Cabinet  who  had  resigned,  and  why  they  had  done 
it;  or  to  tell  Nigel  any  gossip  about  the  others  who  had  thought 
of  resigning  and  stayed  in — an  even  more  interesting  topic. 
The  financial  aspect  of  the  crisis  still  for  him  dominated  every 
other;  he  was  engrossed  in  discussing  what  the  Treasury 
was  going  to  do  for  the  Banks.  Mabel  Nugent,  whose  sister 
was  married  to  an  officer,  was  full  of  secrets  about  the  move- 
ments of  the  expeditionary  force,  and  loud  in  her  contempt 
for  the  Germans. 

"Jack  is  only  afraid  they'll  be  done  for  before  he  gets  out. 
Of  course  if  these  tiresome  people — Simon  and  the  others — 
hadn't  threatened  to  resign,  the  force  might  have  been  out  by 
now.  .  .  .  But  aren't  the  Belgians  ripping?" 

"As  it  is,"  Nugent  sighed,  "I  suppose  the  next  thing  will 
be  I  shall  have  to  go  down  to  Sussex  to  get  the  yokels  to  enlist. 
So  that  I  shan't  even  be  able  to  live  on  my  land  unless  Mabel 
and  I  turn  labourers.  Of  course  I  can  save  the  men's  wages — 
they'll  have  to  go.  After  all,  maids  are  really  nicer,  especially 
in  the  country. " 

"Lois  will  be  down  on  you  if  you  don't  get  rid  of  Fritz 
quickly,"  his  wife  agreed.  "Have  you  heard,  Nigel,  she's  got 
spy  mania?  She  always  had  some  mad  idea  or  other.  .  .  .  By 
the  bye,"  as  Nigel  rose  to  go,  "how  is  your  future  mother-in- 


244  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

law?  If  I  were  Lois  I  should  shut  her  up  as  a  Pro-German. 
That  letter  was  awful." 

Nigel  laughed  tolerantly. 

"  I  think  you  do  her  an  injustice.  Mrs.  Leonard's  a  pacifist ; 
but,  after  all,  we  were  all  pacifists  before  the  Germans  invaded 
Belgium.  It  isn't  as  if  this  country  had  begun  it;  or,  like  the 
Crimean  War,  when  we  were  dragged  in  by  stupid  ministers, 
for  no  good  reason;  or  a  Jingo  adventure  like  the  Boer  War. 
Grey  is  a  pacifist  if  any  one  was.  .  .  .  Belgium  does  for  all 
that." 

Mrs.  Nugent  did  not  seem  quite  convinced. 

"I  distrust  these  International  labour  people.  They're 
always  against  everything." 

Nigel  protested.  "This  really  is  different,  though.  All  the 
people  I  know  who  were  Pro-Boers  are  perfectly  sound  this  time. 
Pacifists  ought  to  be  keen  on  a  war  to  end  war. " 

"You  don't  think  Mrs.  Leonard  will  agree  with  Ramsay 
Macdonald?  " 

"Oh  dear  me,  no!"  cried  Nigel  with  conviction. 

"Well,  of  course  you  know  best."  But  Mabel's  tone  sug- 
gested "Wait  and  see."  "And  your  Daphne?  I  suppose  she 
thinks  what  her  mother  thinks?  Or  does  the  modern  young 
woman  go  by  contraries?"  Nigel  smiled. 

"You  mean,"  Mrs.  Nugent  interpreted  his  smile,  "she'll 
think  as  you  do?  That's  better  still.  .  .  .  Nigel,  it  really  is 
a  great  blessing  she's  not  too  like  her  mother. " 

Nigel  looked  at  his  friend  inquiringly. 

"You  don't  like  Mrs.  Leonard,  Mabel?" 

Mrs.  Nugent  pursed  up  her  lips. 

"I  used  to  like  her.  But  she's  got  hard,  I  think.  And  so 
wrongheaded.  That's  the  worst  of  those  professionally  intellect- 
ual people.  They  reduce  everything  to  a  kind  of  logic.  .  .  . 
She's  too  clever,  you  know;  too  brainy." 

Nigel  was  not  to  be  shaken  out  of  his  own  view. 

"I  don't  believe  that  applies  to  the  war.  It's  too  big. 
Everything  else,  I  grant  you.  But  this  is  not  a  case  for  logic. 
It's  a  case  for  feeling,  and  as  regards  feeling,  Mrs.  Leonard 
will  be  all  right. " 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  245 

Mabel  was  not  so  sure.  Logic  was  a  dangerous  thing,  if 
you  gave  yourself  up  to  it.  Look  at  Mr.  Infield.  What 
malicious  views  he  took  because  he  had  a  theory  of  consistency 
and  always  thought  the  worst  of  every  one. 

"He's  sure  to  think  England  in  the  wrong,  you  see  if  he 
doesn't, "  she  cried. 

Nigel  took  no  responsibility  for  Hugh.  Hugh  was,  he  ad- 
mitted, a  cynic.  He  was  delighted  with  the  word.  He  had, 
he  felt,  at  last  discovered  a  label  that  fitted  Hugh  and  armed 
one  in  advance  against  the  dire  speciousness  of  his  arguments. 
But  he  was  slightly  worried  by  what  Mabel  said. 

When  he  got  back  to  the  Temple  he  found  the  rooms  empty. 
Hugh,  as  usual,  was  out.  Only  one  letter  lay  on  the  table. 
Nigel  recognised  his  brother's  handwriting,  and  wondered  why 
Stephen,  who  never  wrote  to  him,  had  suddenly  been  moved 
to  do  so. 

"My  dear  Nigel,"  he  read.  "I  write  merely  to  tell  you 
that  I  have  read  your  article  in  the  Daily  News  with  the  greatest 
satisfaction.  We  have  often  differed  about  minor  points,  but 
I  have  always  felt  that  in  any  big  issue  your  heart  would  keep 
you  right,  and  I  am  delighted  to  find  that  I  was  correct.  One 
really  feels  the  hand  of  God  in  all  this,  working  in  mysterious 
ways  for  good;  restoring  men  and  women  to  the  saner,  simpler 
emotions  under  the  stress  of  common  danger  and  common  duty, 
and  bringing  them  face  to  face  with  reality. " 

Nigel  paused  for  a  moment.  Was  Stephen  unconsciously 
parodying  him?  No;  it  was  merely,  as  he  said,  that  a  great 
emergency  expressed  all  men  in  terms  of  their  greatest  com- 
mon measure.  He  returned  to  the  letter. 

"I  remember  saying  to  you  when  you  were  here  nearly  a 
year  ago  that  I  saw  signs  of  reviving  national  spirit;  and  I  feel 
no  doubt  that  the  men  of  this  country  will  respond  splendidly 
to  its  call.  Alas  that  there  are  not  more  of  them  ready  for 
service !  But  the  mistakes  of  the  past  ought  to  be  forgotten  at 
such  a  time,  and  I  blame  no  one.  You  will  be  interested  to  hear 
that  young  Godfrey  Toller  has  applied  for  a  commission.  There 
always  was  good  stuff  in  that  young  man.  He  was  agreeably 
free  from  that  pride  of  intellect  which  often  distresses  me  in  the 


246  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

young  men  of  this  University.  I  trust  that  his  example,  and 
his  father's  splendid  words,  will  not  be  without  their  effect:  I 
am  sure  they  cannot  be.  Juliet  is  busy  organising  at  a  Red 
Cross  centre;  she  sends  her  love  to  you  and  to  Miss  Leonard. 
I  need  hardly  say  how  much  we  liked  the  latter.  I  suppose 
these  terrible  events  will  postpone  your  marriage.  ..." 

Nigel  folded  the  letter  up  and  put  it  back  in  its  envelope, 
pondering  as  he  did  so  over  Stephen's  last  remark.  He  was 
right:  it  would  probably  be  better  to  put  off  getting  married; 
it  would  not  seem  the  right  thing  now  to  be  looking  for  a  house 
and  furniture.  He  must  go  and  see  Daphne  and  talk  to  her 
about  it,  as  soon  as  he  could  get  the  paper  out  of  the  way. 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN 

ALTHOUGH  Nigel  had  waved  aside  Mabel  Nugent's  sus- 
picions as  to  the  attitude  likely  to  be  assumed  by  Mrs. 
Leonard,  he  shared  them  sufficiently  to  feel  that  to  meet 
her  would  involve  argument,  and  to  be  glad  to  put  that  argu- 
ment off  for  a  day  or  two.  By  the  end  of  the  week  his  own 
views  had  crystallised  by  expression.  In  the  New  World  on 
Saturday  he  took  back  nothing  of  the  enthusiastic  solemnity 
of  his  first  outpouring  in  the  Daily  News;  but  he  had  time  to 
fix  its  form  and  clarify  its  details;  and  his  article  "Why  We 
are  Right"  pleased  him  in  expression  as  well  as  in  idea.  Upon 
it  he  was  ready  to  meet  Mrs.  Leonard  or  any  one  else,  for  he 
could  claim  adherence  not  only  for  an  unanalysable  emotion 
but  for  a  formulated  creed. 

That  Mrs.  Leonard  rejected  both  at  first  dismayed  and  then 
rather  pleased  him.  Her  arguments  did  not  touch  him,  they 
rather  strengthened  his  own  conviction.  He  found  a  complex 
satisfaction  in  maintaining  his  own  view  against  her.  He 
was  free.  He  was  no  longer  in  the  least  under  her  influence. 
He  had  formed  his  own  view,  stood  on  his  own  feet.  She  was 
wrong,  and  wrong  because  of  that  flaw  he  had  recognised  in 
her  from  the  very  first,  her  tendency  to  intellectualise  everything. 
All  that  she  said  to  him,  as  they  sat  together  by  the  window 
of  the  dusky  flat,  Daphne  a  white  silent  blur  against  a  distant 
sofa,  and  Mrs.  Leonard  herself  ghostlike  in  her  enveloping 
shawl,  only  reinforced  his  conviction  that  to  meet  any  great 
call  or  crisis,  reasoning,  logic,  was  inadequate.  There  were 
things  too  big  for  that  method,  and  this  was  one  of  them.  The 
very  complexity  of  Mrs.  Leonard's  mind  seemed  to  impede  her 

247 


248  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

vision.  She  confused  the  issue  by  talk  of  foreign  policy  and  the 
evils  of  war.  Of  course  they  were  there,  those  evils,  but  they 
were  not  all  there  was  to  see.  One  had,  he  urged,  to  accept 
and  transcend  them.  To  do  this  raised  the  moral  stature  of  a 
nation  or  an  individual.  As  he  faced  her  it  seemed  to  Nigel 
that  there  was  some  deep  contradiction  in  the  incapacity  of  a 
woman  who  looked  like  Mrs.  Leonard  to  rise  above  mere  argu- 
ment, above  the  obvious  and  therefore  negligible  horror  of  war 
in  general,  to  see  the  greatness  and  grandeur  of  a  war  like  this. 
That  surely  was  her  proper  function,  to  inspire  and  prophesy. 
Every  movement  of  her  lovely  pale  hands,  on  which  the  big 
emerald  in  her  ring  flashed  like  an  eye,  every  tone  of  her  deep 
voice,  asked  for  that  noble  use.  Instead,  she  seemed  to  see 
nothing  but  moral  degradation  and  uncompensated  waste.  It 
was  extraordinary;  it  was,  Nigel  felt  as  he  walked  homewards, 
almost  tragic. 

Nobody  agreed  with  her,  except  a  handful  of  people  who 
always  disagreed  with  every  one  else,  and  whose  solitariness 
only  made  the  unanimity  of  the  nation  more  remarkable.  They 
did  not  matter;  but  Aurelia  Leonard  did  matter,  because  there 
was  something  splendid  about  her,  which  made  her  blindness 
a  kind  of  apostasy.  That  Hugh  Infield,  for  instance,  should 
carp  and  criticise,  should  see  the  mote  in  his  country's  eye  far 
larger  than  the  beam  in  its  enemy's  was  to  be  expected.  Hugh 
was  apt  to  take  an  inverted  point  of  view.  It  was  eminently 
characteristic  of  him  that  having  abused  the  pacifists  in  and  out 
of  season  for  their  blindness  to  facts  and  their  absurdly  simpli- 
fied analysis  of  human  motive,  he  should  now  suddenly  come 
out  as  their  champion.  But  Hugh  only  gibed  at  what  he  did 
not  understand. 

What  was  much  more  important  was  that  Daphne  was  all 
right.  She  had  been  stunned  at  first,  as  was  only  natural; 
unable  to  take  in  what  was  happening;  terrified  by  the  vast 
forces  in  action.  But  she  felt  it  all  as  Nigel  did.  Although 
unduly  affected  by  the  horror — how  could  it  be  otherwise,  with 
Mrs.  Leonard  there? — she  did  see  beyond  the  horror.  Her 
vision,  however,  Nigel  felt,  was  insecure.  She  had  not  reached 
to  the  religious  exaltation  that  sustained  him;  and  he  realised 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  249 

that  there  was  danger  of  her  lapsing  altogether  unless  his  influ- 
ence operated  strongly,  counteracting  her  mother's.  This  was 
a  big  responsibility;  but  for  a  time  he  was  in  the  mood  to  wel- 
come responsibility  and  rejoice  in  stress. 

Then,  one  afternoon  early  in  the  next  week  Daphne  came 
in  to  tea  very  tired  after  a  long  day  in  Limehouse  among 
weeping  soldiers'  wives.  She  sat  down  at  the  table  and  cried 
helplessly  that  it  was  all  too  awful;  she  could  not  believe  there 
was  any  good  in  it  or  that  it  could  be  right  to  create  such 
misery.  When  he  tried  to  argue  with  her,  she  had  only  talked 
in  a  way  that  convinced  him  her  mother  must  have  been  trying 
to  convert  her.  This,  and  the  fact  that  he  did  not  seem  able 
to  cheer  her — that  she  even  accused  him  of  not  realising  the 
horrors  of  war — annoyed  Nigel.  It  worried  him  to  see  her  sit- 
ting there,  dishevelled  and  pale,  overworked  and  nervy,  lost 
to  big  issues  and  overwhelmed  by  little  things;  obsessed  with 
death  and  unable  to  see  life.  The  room  was  untidy,  the  table 
heaped  with  papers,  the  tea-things  badly  set — Annie  had  no 
idea  of  how  to  make  a  table  look  nice — across  one  corner; 
Daphne,  as  she  sat  there,  her  hat  on  the  chair  beside  her,  her 
eyes  red,  stirring  her  cup  incessantly  with  a  spoon  she  did  not 
require,  for  she  took  no  sugar,  was  a  depressing  spectacle. 
Nigel  sat  opposite  her,  feeling  helpless.  Why  could  Mrs. 
Leonard  not  leave  her  alone? 

"You  must  not  look  at  it  like  that,  dear  child,"  he  said 
soothingly.  "After  all,  it's  part  of  war  that  men  should  have 
to  go  out  and  leave  their  wives. " 

"I  know,"  wailed  Daphne,  "but  it's  horrible.  .  .  .  Think  of 
all  this  happening  in  France  and  Germany  and  Austria  and 
Russia:  all  over  the  world.  .  .  .  How  can  it  be  right?  What's 
it  all  for?" 

"You  must  ask  the  German  Government  that,"  Nigel  re- 
plied, cutting  himself  a  piece  of  cake. 

Daphne  looked  at  him,  obviously  unconvinced. 

"  Dearest, "  he  said,  "  try  to  see  the  larger  aspect  of  the  thing. 
War  does  mean  misery,  but  isn't  dishonour  worse?  " 

"I  wonder,"  Daphne  mused,  "if  we'd  been  friends  with 
Germany  all  these  years,  instead  of  being  afraid?" 


250  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

Nigel  could  not  restrain  a  movement  of  irritation.  ''Ah!" 
he  cried,  "your  mother's  been  talking  to  you.  Germany's  been 
preparing  this  thing  for  years;  doesn't  everything  prove  it? 
How  could  we  be  friends  while  they  were  piling  up  armies; 
talking  about  shining  armour  in  Morocco,  and  building  forts  to 
attack  Belgium?" 

"But  haven't  we  been  piling  up  armies  too?"  said  Daphne 
in  a  rather  less  miserable  tone. 

"It's  only  a  pity  we  haven't  done  it  more  thoroughly," 
Nigel  retorted.  "If  we  had  we  might  have  frightened  them 
off.  .  .  .  But  dearest,  you're  tired;  don't  let's  argue  about 
these  things.  ...  I  thought  we  agreed.  I'm  afraid  your 
mother  has  been  talking  to  you?"  He  came  back  to  it  again. 
He  had  not  meant  to  mention  Mrs.  Leonard;  a  conflict  was  the 
test  thing  he  desired,  but  he  felt  she  was  not  playing  the  game. 

Daphne  looked  up  quickly. 

"Nigel,  you  look  quite  cross!" 

"Well,  so  I  shall  be  if  she  worries  you!" 

"But,  Nigel,  I'm  not  a  child;  I  must  hear  both  sides  and 
think  about  it  for  myself.  ...  I'm  ashamed  of  the  way  I 
don't,  as  it  is." 

Nigel  made  an  impatient  movement. 

"Mother  knows  so  much  more  about  it  than  I  do,"  Daphne 
went  on.  Nigel  interrupted  quickly. 

"Yes,  but  she's  biassed.  Her  views  are  quite  peculiar. 
Think  of  all  the  people  we  know;  not  one  agrees  with 
her." 

"No,"  said  Daphne  slowly.  "But  they  don't,  most 
of  them,  seem  to  feel  it  as  she  does.  .  .  .  Do  you, 
Nigel?" 

Her  clear  eyes  interrogated  him. 

Nigel  gave  a  sigh. 

"Feel  it?  Dear  Daphne,  yes.  But,  thank  God,  I  feel 
the  greatness  of  it,  not  only  the  horror.  That's  what  I  hoped 
you'd  do  too.  .  .  .  It's  a  tragic  greatness  if  you  like, 
but  there's  something  sublime  in  it.  Think  of  all  these 
people  giving  up  everything  for  their  country;  think 
of  the  men  we  know  who  are  leaving  their  work  and 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  251 

their  play.  I  think  of  Lionel  Delahaye,  Tom  Ridgley, 
Luke  Marsden  and  dozens  more.  They  hate  war  in 
general  as  much  as  we  can,  but  they  go.  They're  fighting 
against  war.  Men  won't  be  men  when  they  can't  do 
that:  risk  all  they  have  and  are.  Would  England  be 
a  nation  if  they  didn't?  If  I  were  a  few  years  younger  I'd 
go  myself:  it  would  be  much  easier  than  stopping  at 
home." 

Daphne  stared  at  the  tablecloth,  making  patterns  with 
her  crumbs. 

"I  know,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "You're  splendid, 
Nigel.  ...  I  wish  I  could  see  it  as  you  do  all  the  time.  I 
do  agree  with  you.  But  it's  hard  to  see  that  side,  especially 
in  Limehouse." 

Nigel  sighed  rather  wearily.  Yes,  it  was  hard  to 
sustain  one's  vision.  Action  was  certainly  easier,  as  he 
said. 

"And,"  Daphne  went  on,  "dreadful  things  come  out 
as  well  as  good  ones.  Some  of  the  women  down  there  are 
married  to  Germans:  some  are  Germans.  If  you  heard  the 
way  some  of  the  workers — quite  nice  people,  too — speak  about 
them.  It's  awful." 

Nigel  only  nodded.  He  had  had  enough  of  argument  for 
the  moment. 

Later  in  the  same  week  Nigel  and  Daphne  met  at  din- 
ner at  the  Royal  Carringtons.  The  conversation  at  table 
had,  of  course,  been  exclusively  about  the  war;  every  con- 
versation, anywhere,  was  that  now,  though  a  slight  element 
of  difference  had  been  provided  by  Royal  Carrington  him- 
self, who,  with  the  extraordinary  rapidity  of  recovery  char- 
acteristic of  him,  was  beginning  to  see  it  all  as  an  un- 
equalled medium  for  himself  as  a  producer.  He  was  going 
to  put  modern  war  on  the  stage,  and  it  had  never  been 
attempted  before.  It  would  be  a  tremendous  artistic 
opportunity,  and  might  also  serve  a  patriotic  purpose  as  a 
recruiting  draw. 

"Thank  God  I'm  an  American  citizen,"  he  said.  "I  can 
go  over  the  whole  field — I  shall  begin  with  Serbia  and 


252  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

work  through.  By  the  time  I  get  to  Berlin  there  ought 
to  be  something  to  see  there;  and  Poland  will  be 
superb.  ...  Of  course  if  the  Germans  get  to  Paris  I  might 
begin  on  the  West;  but  I  have  a  feeling  that  the  Eastern  cam- 
paign will  be  the  most  pictorial.  ...  I'd  like  to  catch  Austria 
in  the  act  of  breaking  up.  Riots  in  Buda  Pesth  would  be  a 
splendid  scene." 

"I  think  you're  horrible,  Royal,"  cried  Nigel.  "You  regard 
it  all  simply  as  a  spectacle." 

Royal  Carrington  grinned  at  him. 

"Well,  after  all— so  we  all  do." 

The  others  protested  violently,  but  Carrington  was 
not  affected.  "You  regard  it  as  a  moral  spectacle,  Strode; 
you  as  a  great  military  display,  Drew;  I  as  an  artistic 
one — there  doesn't  seem  to  me  to  be  much  difference. 
To  me  German  militarism  is  a  splendid  type  figure  in 
a  world  drama;  you  can  call  it  the  devil  if  you  like: 
the  devil  has  always  been  recognised  as  one  of  the  great  pro- 
tagonists of  tragedy.  .  .  .  The  superb  simplification  of  the 
whole  thing  makes  a  tremendous  appeal  to  me  .  .  .  one's 
got  rid,  at  a  stroke,  of  all  the  tiresome  superficial  differences, 
and  back  to  the  old  ruling  instincts  which  are  the  stuff  the 
artist  wants." 

"Yes,"  said  Wellesley  Drew,  squaring  his  shoulders. 
"We've  got  to  realise  now  that  what  makes  a  nation  is  its 
men.  All  this  surface  tosh  we  have  had  so  much  of 
lately  is  disappearing  now — about  intellect  ruling  the 
world  and  so  on.  Where  are  the  intellectuals,  I'd  like 
to  know?  They'll  have  to  take  a  back  seat  for  a  long  time. 
And  the  suffragettes,  too,  I  fancy."  He  looked  at  his 
wife  with  a  kind  of  masterful  grin,  such  as  would  have 
produced  a  fierce  outburst  from  Lois  under  normal  cir- 
cumstances. But  now  she  was  silent.  She  had  said 
very  little  all  the  evening,  nor  had  either  of  the  other  ladies 
contributed  much:  they  accepted  their  relegation.  Evan- 
geline,  in  wonderful  orange  draperies,  with  a  leopard 
skin  round  her  shoulders,  lay  back  on  a  deep  black  velvet 
lounge,  looking  darkly  at  the  company  out  of  her  sombre 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  253 

heavy  lidded  eyes.  Only  occasionally  did  she  throw  in  a 
remark  in  her  slow  drawl.  Royal  talked  so  much  that  she 
adopted  silence.  It  was  much  the  cleverest  thing  she  could 
have  done;  as  a  pictorial  element  in  the  background  she  was 
admirable,  when  she  spoke  rather  silly.  All  her  brains 
seemed  to  have  gone  to  the  science  of  appearance,  in 
that  she  was  masterly;  but  except  to  the  eye  she  had 
nothing  to  say.  Wisely,  therefore,  had  she  placed  herself 
in  a  circle  normally  devoted  entirely  to  parlance  through 
the  eye.  Carrington's  friends  incessantly  painted  her. 
Now  she  could  accept  woman's  sphere  with  complete 
grace;  while  Lois,  untidy,  ill-dressed  and  restless,  re- 
sisted awkwardly.  Certainly  Evangeline  was  decorative 
as  she  lay  smoking  one  heavily  scented  cigarette  after 
another,  her  lazy  eyes  travelling  idly  over  the  faces  of  the 
various  speakers,  or  wandering  away  from  them  to  sur- 
vey the  room.  The  walls  were  black,  the  ceiling  like- 
wise black,  the  carpet  a  deep  blue.  It  was  all  arranged 
to  give  the  utmost  value  to  Evangeline 's  vivid  orange 
robes,  repeated  in  the  great  orange  lilies  that  stood  on 
a  little  lacquer  table  against  the  black  wall,  and  in  the  tawny 
coat  of  the  vast  cat  that  slumbered  in  sphinx-like  attitude 
at  her  feet. 

Wellesley  Drew  got  up  from  his  seat  and  moved  to  the 
fireplace  to  light  his  cigar  at  the  little  torch  burning  blue 
there.  He  stood,  evidently  supremely  conscious  of  his  six- 
foot-two  of  height  and  breadth. 

"After  all,"  he  resumed  his  speech,  "the  real  question 
is  simply  are  we  strong  enough  to  beat  the  Germans?  If 
we  win  we're  the  better  men;  but  that's  all  I  can  see  in  it. 
I  regard  them  simply  as  a  wasps'  nest  which  we've  at  last 
got  a  chance  of  destroying.  There's  no  use  in  telling  me  that 
our  people  haven't  been  longing  for  a  whack  at  them 
for  ages,  I'm  sure  they  have.  I  hate  this  talk  about 
our  not  wanting  to  go  in.  ...  It  seems  to  me  pusillanimous." 

"Ah,  but  on  your  lines,"  said  Nigel,  "might  is  right,  which 
is  just  what  we're  fighting  to  deny." 

Wellesley    laughed.      It   was    extraordinary,    the    aplomb 


254  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

he  had  acquired.  In  olden  days  he  had  begun  his  tirades 
by  a  kind  of  apology — he  was  not  clever,  he  knew;  he  was 
the  "plain  man."  All  that  had  now  entirely  disap- 
peared. He  took  his  stand,  literally  and  metaphorically, 
upon  the  hearthrug. 

"Of  course  might  is  right,"  he  said.  "How  can  you  tell 
which  side  is  right  except  by  its  winning?  I  can't  see 
any  other  criterion.  ...  If  the  Germans  were  to  beat 
us — which  is  inconceivable— they'd  prove  themselves  the 
better  men,  and  that's  all  there  is  in  it,  as  far  as  I  can  see." 

This  was  too  much  for  Nigel. 

"I  disagree  with  you  entirely,"  he  said.  "I  can't 
admit  for  a  minute  that  it's  simply  a  case  of  force  against 
force.  We  are  fighting  for  an  idea — the  idea  of  freedom  and 
respect  for  treaties.  What  idea  are  the  Germans  fight- 
ing for?" 

No  one  answered. 

"Aren't  the  Germans  fighting  to  defend  themselves  against 
Russia?  "  Daphne  threw  in. 

"That's  no  doubt  the  excuse  they  give  their  own 
people.  .  .  .  But  we  are  fighting  for  an  idea,"  Nigel 
went  on,  "and  it's  because  of  that  that  you  find  heaps  of 
people  who  hate  war  ordinarily  enthusiastic  for  this 
war — men  like  Sir  Anthony  Toller  and  all  the  other  men 
of  letters  and  professors — Gilbert  Murray,  Bridges,  and  so 
on — and  young  men  who  hate  the  idea  of  killing  going 
off  to  fight.  They're  not  in  love  with  force — they  hate 
it.  This  is  a  war  against  war:  that's  why  all  the  pacificists  are 
in  favour  of  it." 

"Pacificists  always  have  been  in  favour  of  war  when 
it  comes  to  the  point,"  said  Lois.  In  the  general  laugh 
that  accepted  this  remark  Daphne's  protest  went  unheeded. 

A  diversion  was  provided  by  the  entrance  of  Godfrey 
Toller,  in  khaki.  Godfrey's  rehabilitation  was  complete. 
He  was  restored  to  the  bosom  of  his  family  and  his  name 
was  perpetually  on  his  father's  lips.  His  own  opinions  had 
apparently  not  changed,  however. 

"Oh,  father's  quite  off  his  head,"  he  explained,  in  an- 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  255 

swer  to  inquiries  after  his  health.  "As  he  never  killed  a  fly 
in  his  life,  he  regards  every  Tommy  as  a  holy  hero.  .  .  .  Our 
house  is  all  on  its  head,  being  turned  into  a  hospital — jolly 
uncomfortable  hospital  it'll  be. — Myrtle  is  learning  Red 
Cross  and  goes  about  all  day  in  a  huge  apron. — Father  talks 
of  nothing  but  Home  Defence  and  mother  is  trying  to  dis- 
cover a  bomb-proof  cellar.  When  Myrtle's  nothing  else 
to  do  she  goes  about  worrying  people  to  enlist.  You 
know  that  little  artist  man  of  hers — can't  remember  his  name 
— he's  joined!  Lot  of  use  he'll  be.  ...  Cambridge  is  doing 
quite  well.  ...  I  expect  Nugent '11  find  Sussex  a  bit 
slow.  I  suppose  he's  made  a  beginning  with  his  gar- 
deners. I  got  five  chaps  at  the  Palace  the  other  night 
— took  'em  all  off  for  drinks:  that  finished  them.  .  .  . 
Funny  thing,  isn't  it,  Eva,"  he  turned  to  his  sister,  "to  think 
that  five  years  ago  father  stormed  and  fumed  about  the 
place  because  Herbert  insisted  upon  going  into  the  army? 
Pretty  rotten  we  all  thought  it  then,  I  know.  I  used 
to  look  down  on  army  men  as  awful  asses.  They've  got  the 
pull  now,  however — Herbert  is  in  France  while  I'm  still 
in  the  dust  at  Seaford." 

The  conversation  soon  degenerated  into  anecdotes,  and  at 
a  signal  from  Nigel  Daphne  rose  to  go. 

"Do  you  know,  Nigel,"  she  said,  after  they  had  walked 
for  a  few  minutes  in  silence.  "I  am  not  sure  that  I  really 
do  find  unanimity  stimulating.  It's  rather  awful  to  agree 
with  Royal  Carrington  and  Mr.  Drew  .  .  .  and  to  have 
to  think  Godfrey  Toller  really  worth  more  to  his  country 
than — well,  than  you  or  Hugh,  just  because  he's  twenty-nine 
and  you're  thirty-nine." 

"Ah!"  cried  Nigel.  "That's  just  the  danger  for  people 
like  us.  ...  I  mean  one  gets  so  separated  and  intellectualised 
that  one  really  doesn't  like  a  common  feeling  and  tends  to 
see  in  it  the  things  that  hold  apart,  not  the  ones  that  bring 
people  together."  This  was  not  very  clear;  but  Daphne  ap- 
parently understood  it. 

"You  think  it's  just  intellectual  pride,  my  feeling?"  she 
asked.  "Perhaps  it  is.  ...  But  it  certainly  isn't  that  that 


256  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

makes  mother  see  it  all  so  differently.  She  doesn't  want  to 
be  different,  it  breaks  her  heart." 

Nigel  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  merely  pressed  Daphne's 
hand  sympathetically. 

"It's  very  hard  for  you  that  she  does  see  it  so  differently," 
he  began.  Daphne  interrupted. 

"Oh,  do  you  know,  Nigel,  I  think  it's  much  harder  for 
her;  I  can't  help  feeling  that  I've  somehow  failed  her.  We've 
always  been  so  together,  seen  things  so  together,  and 
now  she's  alone  .  .  .  I've  got  you  .  .  .  but  she's  alone." 

"It  would  hurt  you  more  to  differ  from  me,  wouldn't  it?" 
said  Nigel  quickly. 

Daphne  looked  at  it.  Then  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his 
and  nodded.  It  was  not  apparently  a  thing  she  could  talk 
about. 

"Though,  do  you  know,  I  can't  help  a  kind  of  feeling 
that  mother  may,  after  all,  be  right  .  .  ."  she  said  after  a 
pause.  Nigel  laughed  happily. 

"Ah,  I  don't  mind  your  thinking  that,  if  you  agree  with 
me." 

Daphne  was  again  silent.  They  walked  on,  crossing  High 
Holborn  and  turning  down  Kingsway:  the  Carringtons  lived 
in  Russell  Square.  Then  Daphne  said — 

"The  difficulty  with  me  is,  you  know,  that  I'm  not  really, 
deep  down,  half  as  wretched  about  it  as  I  ought  to  be.  I've 
got  you — and  that  means  so  much  that  I  can't  take  it  in, 
that  all  the  rest  of  the  world  has  gone." 

Nigel  pressed  her  hand.  But  he  could  not  find  anything 
to  say  in  answer.  Daphne  embarrassed  him  when  she  talked 
like  that.  She  did  it  rarely  now;  but  that  she  had  ceased 
to  say  these  things  did  not,  he  knew,  mean  that  she  had  ceased 
to  think  them.  Would  she  ever  cease  to  think  them?  He 
found  himself  almost  hoping  that  she  would.  He  did  not 
want  life  screwed  up  to  that  pitch  emotionally.  One  couldn't 
bear  it,  not  in  private  life. 

Their  walk  had  now  brought  them  to  the  corner  of  Welling- 
ton Street.  Nigel  saw  Daphne  ascend  to  the  top  of  the  'bus 
and  turned  homewards  to  the  Temple. 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  257 

Hugh  was  sitting  at  the  table  when  he  got  in,  writing 
hard.  He  wrote  with  the  greatest  possible  appearance 
of  effort,  very  slowly,  in  a  remarkably  ugly  and  rather 
illegible  hand.  Nigel  threw  himself  into  a  deep  chair 
and  yawned  profoundly.  An  evening  paper  lay  on  the 
hearthrug  at  his  feet.  After  a  few  minutes,  in  which 
Hugh  went  on  with  his  writing,  he  yawned  again.  Hugh 
looked  up. 

"Tired  of  the  war  already,  Nigel?  I  see  you  don't  even 
look  at  the  paper.  .  .  .  The  Germans  are  getting  on 
at  a  great  rate.  They'll  be  in  Paris  for  Sedan  day,  I 
expect." 

Nigel  yawned  again  and  picked  up  the  sheet. 

"It  does  look  bad,  doesn't  it?"  he  said.  "I'm  afraid  the 
French  are  no  good,  you  know. " 

Hugh  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"We  shall  give  up  the  holy  war  after  a  bit  and  talk  about 
fighting  for  existence,  I  fancy, "  he  said.  "But  I  thought  you'd 
keep  it  up  a  bit  longer. " 

Nigel  sat  up.     "I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Hugh." 

"Oh,  don't  mind  me,"  said  Hugh,  addressing  an  envelope. 
"Only  it  amuses  me  to  watch  the  temperature  of  moral  indigna- 
tion going  down.  Come,  confess  you  don't  feel  the  glow  of  three 
weeks  ago?  " 

Nigel  tried  to  be  angry;  but  in  the  end  he  laughed. 

"One  can't  keep  at  fever  heat,"  he  admitted.  There  was 
a  short  silence.  Hugh  stamped  his  letters  and  collected  them 
together. 

"No,"  he  said,  rising  to  his  feet  and  lighting  his  pipe  at  the 
lamp.  "Only  the  sacred  terror  can  keep  you  at  that. " 

Nigel  looked  up. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  the  sacred  terror?  Is  it  racial 
hate?  "  Hugh  smiled  as  he  drew  at  his  pipe. 

"No,"  he  said  slowly.  "It's  not  the  impulse  that  drives 
men  out  to  kill  their  brothers,  there's  nothing  sacred  about  that. 
Love  is  the  sacred  terror,  love  such  as" — he  paused — "such  as 
Daphne  Leonard  feels  for  you. " 

He  stopped  and  stood  looking  at  his  friend. 


258  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

"Well?"  said  Nigel,  who  saw  that  he  had  more  to  say. 

"Nothing,"  said  Hugh.  He  moved  towards  the  door,  his 
letters  in  his  hand,  paused  upon  the  threshold;  but  finally 
went  out  without  saying  anything.  Nigel  listened  to  his  heavy 
footsteps  on  the  stair  and  then  across  the  courtyard  as  he  lay 
back  in  his  chair,  turning  over  his  ambiguous  phrase.  The 
sacred  terror.  Yes,  Hugh  was  right;  sacred  or  no,  terror  was 
the  word  for  that  kind  of  feeling.  He  was  not  sure  that  it  did 
not  terrify  him. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY 

THE  golden  light  of  late  afternoon  filled  Kensington  Gar- 
dens.    Across  the  smooth  walks  and  on  the  grass,  hardly 
touched  with  yellow,  the  trees  cast  fantastic  patterns. 
The  scent  of  heliotrope  floated  on  the  warm  air.     London 
seemed  remote:  the  hum  of  Knightsbridge  was  only  a  soft 
undertone  which   increased   the   Sunday   hush.    Few   people 
passed  along  the  lesser  walks,  and  in  the  sheltered  spot  where 
Mrs.  Leonard  and  Hugh  Infield  were  sitting  nothing  suggested 
war  save  an  occasional  khaki-clad  youth  passing  in  the  distance, 
his  arm  round  the  waist  of  a  young  woman. 

Nothing  suggested  it  to  the  eye,  but  to  the  mind  of  every 
one,  and  certainly  of  these  two,  it  clouded  the  beauty  of  the 
garden,  the  brilliance  of  the  August  sun.  As  they  walked  they 
had  talked  of  the  news.  How  could  they  talk  of  anything  else, 
with  Paris  in  danger  every  instant  more  terrible,  and  Belgium 
suffering  things  before  which  imagination  blenched?  But  after 
they  sat  down  on  their  little  green  chairs  a  time  passed  in  which 
neither  said  anything.  Hugh  lit  his  pipe  and  leaned  back,  his 
felt  hat  well  over  his  eyes,  his  hands  thrust  deep  into  his  pockets, 
staring  now  down  the  long  green  vista  before  him,  now  at  the 
delicate  reflections  which  his  companion's  mauve  sunshade  cast 
upon  her  face,  and  the  dappled  light  and  shadow  across  the 
black  and  white  stripes  of  her  dress.  Her  eyes,  he  knew,  were 
on  the  two  figures  that  only  occasionally  came  within  their 
field  of  vision,  when  they  crossed  the  opening  between  the  trees 
at  the  bottom  of  the  glade:  a  white-clad  girl  and  tall  young 
man  in  grey:  Daphne  and  Nigel.  Hugh  wondered  what  they 
were  talking  about  and  whether  they  would  finally  go  to  tea 

259 


260  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

with  the  Mottershaws  as  Nigel  had  suggested.  It  did  not 
seem  a  question  of  much  importance;  but  Hugh  found  himself 
curious  to  know.  From  the  fact  that  they  were  still  in  the 
Gardens,  he  thought  Daphne  must  have  won. 

She  had,  but  at  a  price,  the  price  of  a  recognised  division 
of  desire  between  herself  and  Nigel.  He  wanted  something 
she  quite  definitely  did  not  want,  and  that  was  extraordinarily 
disagreeable.  To  call  or  not  to  call  on  Mrs.  Mottershaw  mat- 
tered nothing.  What  did  matter  was  that  Nigel  continued 
to  want  to  do  it  after  she  had  told  him  she  did  not,  and  that  he 
did  not  seem  able  to  understand  the  reason  of  her  unwilling- 
ness. 

"We  haven't  really  seen  each  other  for  so  long, "  she  pleaded. 

He  waived  the  plea  gaily  aside.  They  had  just  been  seeing 
each  other — he  took  out  his  watch — for  two  hours  and  a  half. 

"Oh,  but!"  Daphne  took  him  up.  "I  don't  call  that  really 
seeing,  talking  about  the  war  with  other  people  there. " 

"After  all, "  Nigel  smiled,  "we  can't  live  on  a  desert  island. " 

Daphne  sighed  a  little. 

"I  believe  you  wish  we  could!"  he  exclaimed. 

She  looked  at  him  on  that. 

"Sometimes  I  do,"  she  admitted.  "Don't  you  ever, 
Nigel?" 

Nigel  was  full  of  sound '  sense  upon  the  absurdity  of 
such  wishes.  And  anyhow  they  need,  he  urged,  only  spend 
half-an-hour  with  the  Mottershaws.  One  must  not  fall  into 
the  habit  of  avoiding  friends:  what  would  life  be  without  them? 
Daphne  was  not  convinced.  The  Mottershaws  were  not  really 
friends,  and  they  would  probably  not  see  them,  for  there  was 
sure  to  be  a  crowd  of  other  people. 

"Very  nice  people  too." 

"Yes,  but  a  crowd.  You'd  disappear  and  talk  to  some  one. 
I  should  have  to  talk  to  some  one  else.  You  know  how  one 
talks  to  people  nowadays — how  hopeless  it  is.  Then  we  should 
come  away  and  I  shouldn't  have  seen  you  at  all. " 

Nigel  stared  in  front  of  him,  a  little  frown  on  his  brow. 
They  walked  on  in  silence,  till  Daphne,  turning  her  head,  saw 
the  frown  still  there.  She  instantly  relented:  laid  her  hand  on 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  261 

his  arm  and  declared  that  she  would  go.  Nigel's  frown  became 
more  pronounced. 

"That  really  is  nonsense,  Daphne.  You  don't  want  to  go. 
So  we  won't.  There's  an  end  of  it,  let's  talk  of  something  else. 
No — don't  look  so  glum.  You've  got  your  way  and  ought  to  be 
pleased  about  it,  not  sorry. " 

Talking  of  something  else,  however,  did  not  prove  so  easy, 
for  over  them  there  hung  the  sense  of  an  unuttered  question 
that  neither  seemed  able  to  voice.  They  had  tea  under  the  trees 
at  the  edge  of  the  Gardens,  but  the  place  was  thinly  peopled, 
and  drove  home  the  change  that  had  come  over  the  old  careless 
life,  that  had  subtly,  in  ways  impossible  to  measure,  coloured 
their  relation,  so  that,  though  August  was  nearly  at  an  end,  the 
date  of  their  marriage  remained  uncertain,  undiscussed. 

Hugh  Infield's  ponderings  did  not  give  him  the  details  of 
their  conversation,  either  in  what  it  said  or  what  it  left  un- 
uttered; but  unobservant  as  he  passed  in  general  for  being,  he 
guessed  a  good  deal.  After  all,  he  had  seen  them  both  at  lunch, 
and  the  atmosphere  of  lunch  had  been  suggestive.  That  occa- 
sion, which  ought  to  have  been  pleasant,  had  somehow  failed. 
Of  course  the  news  was  bad:  it  had,  for  the  last  ten  days,  been 
getting  worse,  and  the  suspicion  that  little  of  the  truth  percolated 
through  the  newspapers  encouraged  the  gloomiest  interpreta- 
tions of  what  did.  That  very  Sunday  The  Times  had  contained 
an  account  of  the  British  retreat  from  Mons  that  bore  the  im- 
press of  truth  and  suggested  a  terrible  catastrophe.  But  the 
oppression  that  hung  over  the  lunch-table  was  more  personal. 
There  was  a  failure  of  adjustment  somewhere,  a  sense  of  oppos- 
ing camps  and  armed  neutrality.  Nigel  had  been  bright  and 
talkative;  but  his  brightness  had  seemed  forced.  He  kept  it 
up,  as  if  he  were  lunching  with  people  whom  he  did  not  know  at 
all.  His  attempt  to  distract  the  mind — perhaps  only  his  own 
mind — whether  from  apprehension  or  from  difficult  disagree- 
ments, did  not  seem  to  Hugh  the  right  line  to  take  with  Mrs. 
Leonard,  or  even  with  Daphne.  Daphne  had  worn  a  baffled 
expression.  She  had  said  little,  looked  at  Nigel  a  great  deal, 
with  unanswered  questions  in  her  eyes:  questions  to  herself  as 
much  as  to  Nigel.  Nigel  had  appeared  supremely  unaware;  but 


262  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

Nigel's  unawareness,  like  his  brightness,  rang  a  little  false. 
You  could  be  unaware  of  many  things — the  atmosphere  of  the 
flat  was  thick  with  them — but  not,  Hugh  thought,  of  quite  so 
many.  A  complete  blank  could  only  be  presented  by  a  con- 
scious effort,  and  a  conscious  effort  implied  that  you  were,  to 
that  extent,  aware.  And  being  aware  was  a  perilous  process, 
a  step  upon  the  inclined  plank  that  led  straight  down  to  abysmal 
understandings.  They  yawned  for  two  at  least  of  the  party, 
beneath  everything  said  or  left  unsaid,  beneath  every  pause. 
Even  to  imagine  them  might  well  create  an  oppression.  It  was 
at  Mrs.  Leonard's  suggestion  that  Nigel  and  Daphne  had  gone 
out  for  a  walk  an  hour  before  she  and  Hugh  Infield  followed 
them,  after  tea,  into  the  Gardens. 

"You  are  quite  right,  Hugh,"  Mrs.  Leonard's  voice  broke 
in  upon  his  thoughts.  "He  never  will  see.  He  doesn't  want 
to  see.  He  hates  me  for  trying  to  make  him  see."  Hugh 
looked  round.  His  pipe  had  gone  out  and  he  re-lit  it. 

"About  the  war?"  he  said.  "Oh  yes."  His  tone  did  not 
express  the  least  surprise. 

"It  isn't,  you  see,  Hugh,  as  if  to  accept  the  conventional  view 
were  natural  for  Nigel.  It  doesn't  hurt  me  that  nice  men  like 
Edward  Sturton,  who's  always  been  a  romantic  Jingo,  or  his 
dear  little  wife,  who  can't  think  at  all,  should  approve  of  it  all : 
that's  part  of  them  and  all  one's  ever  thought  about  them. 
But  Nigel's  attitude  does  somehow  hurt.  He  is  wilfully  refusing 
to  continue  to  think  on  the  lines  on  which  he,  at  least  nominally, 
always  thought  before.  And  he's  enthusiastic  about  it,  he 
seems  to  enjoy  it.  He  makes  a  kind  of  creed  of  not  seeing  and 
calls  me  unpatriotic  and  cold-blooded.  The  people  who  think 
it  right  are  not,  all  of  them,  blinded  to  its  horror,  but  Nigel  has 
to  think  the  horror  splendid. " 

Hugh  did  not  want  to  enter  into  the  question  in  detail.  He 
was,  he  knew,  afraid  of  it. 

"Nigel  goes  with  the  tide,"  he  said.  "That  saves  a  great 
deal  of  trouble.  It's  a  thrilling  feeling  too,  swimming  with  a 
big  wave. " 

He  moved  rather  restlessly  in  his  chair  and  his  pipe  seemed  to 
require  much  attention.  Mrs.  Leonard  had  closed  her  sunshade 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  263 

and  was  now  making  a  little  hole  in  the  ground  with  the 
point. 

"You  ought  not  to  do  that,"  said  Hugh.  "You'll  spoil 
the  pretty  white  wood. " 

Mrs.  Leonard  smiled,  as  if  the  remark  had  for  some  reason 
pleased  her.  The  smile  soon  died,  however,  as  she  took  up 
Hugh's  remark. 

"Swimming  with  the  tide  thrills  him?  Yes.  But,  Hugh, 
you  alarm  me  when  you  say  things  like  that.  You  ought  to 
have  said  them  before. " 

Hugh  did  not  take  this  up ;  he  seemed  to  accept  its  truth  with 
bent  head. 

"You  know  Nigel,  you  see,  so  much  better  than  we 
do." 

"We?"  he  questioned. 

"Than  Daphne  and  I." 

"Daphne — oh,  of  course  she  can't,  she  sees  him  in  a  golden 
haze.  But,  Aurelia,  I  can't  believe  you  don't  see  him  just  as 
he  is." 

"And  that  is?"  Mrs.  Leonard  interjected  quickly.  Hugh's 
embarrassment  grew. 

"Nigel  is  a  friend  of  mine.  .  ."he  began.  Mrs.  Leonard 
laid  a  hand  on  his  arm,  with  a  gesture  that  seemed  to  intimate 
it  was  time  to  break  down  barriers.  Her  words,  when  she 
went  on,  showed  that  she  was  prepared  to  do  so. 

"Your  loyalty,  Hugh,  is  perfect,  I  know.  But  I'm  not  sure 
that  Nigel's  being  a  friend  of  yours  hasn't  helped  to  blind  me. 
Though  the  fault  was  mine  in  the  beginning.  Yes,"  as  Hugh 
looked  up  in  some  surprise.  "  It  was.  It's  rather  a  humiliating 
confession  for  a  woman  of  my  age,  but  I  will  confess  to  you  that 
once,  when  I  first  knew  him,  I  really  got  frighteningly  near 
being — well,  bowled  over  by  him  myself.  So  that  I  understand 
Daphne  too  well  to  understand  him,  to  put  together  what  he 
seems  and  his  attitude  about  the  war,  for  instance.  Does  that 
make  you  laugh:  that  I  felt  him  like  that?" 

Hugh  was  evidently  strongly  moved.  He  stared  at  the 
ground  with  an  expression  that  was  far  removed  from  amuse- 
ment. 


264  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

"Laugh?"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "No  it  makes  me  feel 
inclined  to  cry.  .  .  .  And  I  want  to  kill  Nigel.  Yes,  I  do. " 

"Oh,  come!  He  can't  help  my  having  been  a  fool  for  ten 
minutes.  .  .  .  After  all,  it's  not  a  crime  to  be  charming," 
said  Mrs.  Leonard  lightly,  as  if  repenting  of  her  frankness  and 
desirous  of  reducing  the  effect  of  what  she  had  said.  Her  effort 
was  vain:  Hugh  had  understood.  He  sat  up  rather  stiffly. 
His  mouth  was  grim  and  his  eyes  glared  behind  their  glasses. 

"It  is  a  crime,  it's  the  worst  of  crimes,  to  feel  life  so  cheap 
and  make  it  so  damnably  expensive  for  other  people.  That's 
what  one  forgets;  what  one,  rather,  tries  not  to  see,  refuses  to 
see,  till  it's  absolutely  forced  on  one.  Oh,  I  too.  .  .  .  You've 
rated  my  slackness,  but  never  half  as  severely  as  I  deserved. 
I  thought  'Here's  a  fellow  who'll  always  be  gay  and  jolly  and 
make  life  seem  gay  and  jolly  too,  and  who's  clever  and  sensi- 
tive enough  to  see  that  other  people  are  different  and  adapt  him- 
self to  them.'  He's  a  wonderful  mimic — phonograph,  poor 
Jimmy  used  to  call  him — can  strum  any  tune  he's  ever  heard. 
He  thinks  he's  an  aeolian  harp,  of  course,  vibrating  to  every 
thrill  of  passion.  Youth  thrills  him,  spring  thrills  him,  suffer- 
ing thrills  him,  the  war  thrills  him,  but  all  his  thrills  are  harp 
thrills,  pretty  running  things  that  die  away  with  a  sort  of  delicate 
pathos  into  the  next.  He  feels  all  the  poetry  of  life,  in  verses 
about  six  lines  long. " 

"Oh,  Hugh!"  cried  Aurelia.  "I'm  sure  you're  unjust:  you 
exaggerate.  ...  I  think  Nigel's  all  wrong  about  the  war,  he 
doesn't  see  anything,  he  won't;  but  he  does  feel  it?" 

It  was  phrased  as  a  question,  this  last  sentence;  but  Hugh 
recognised  in  it  more  of  the  quality  of  an  appeal.  The  impulse 
that  had  made  him  so  suddenly  and  almost  brutally  speak  out 
still  held,  for  he  rejected  the  appeal. 

"No,  he  doesn't.  If  he  did  it  wouldn't  thrill,  it  would 
tear  and  rend  him,  as  it  does  you.  The  people  who  are  thrilled 
by  it  are  people  of  cold  passions  and  slow  imagination.  Pas- 
sionate natures  live  on  their  own  passion.  They  don't  need 
these  violent  stimuli  from  outside,  it's  the  sentimentalists  who 
respond  to  them.  Not  because  their  passions  are  strong,  but 
because  they're  weak.  It's  all  part  of  Nigel,  to  be  thrilled  by  the 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  265 

war.  I  didn't  see  it  myself  until  a  week  or  so  ago;  but  one 
night  it  became  clear  to  me  how  just  because  he's  such  miles 
away  from  the  real  thing,  he  can  take  in  people  like  you,  who 
are  full  of  it.  But,  oh  God,  what  a  world!  Daphne  may  be  all 
right:  what  I  cannot  stand  is  the  thought  of  you,  Aurelia. " 

Mrs.  Leonard's  eyes  rested  on  Hugh's  bent  head  with  an  ex- 
pression in  which  many  feelings  mingled. 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter  about  me.  That  was  nothing,  and 
it's  all  over.  That's  not  the  question." 

"Ah,  that's  what  you've  always  said  But  it  does  matter 
to  me." 

"Oh,  Hugh,  not  now."     Hugh  still  stared  at  the  ground. 

"Yes,  "he  said. 

Mrs.  Leonard  looked  away.  She  did  not  speak,  Hugh  did 
not,  apparently,  expect  her  to  speak. 

"Besides,"  she  went  back  to  it.  "I  think  you  are  unjust 
to  Nigel.  You're  revenging  on  him  now  the  extent  to  which 
you've  liked  him  irresponsibly.  He's  just  a  little  off  the  picture 
you  made  of  him,  that  it  suited  you  to  make,  that  you  were  too 
lazy  to  make  fit  the  reality;  and  therefore  you  insist  on  smashing 
the  whole  thing.  That's  not  fair  to  him  or  you.  But  it  brings 
me  to  what  I  feel,  what  I  have  always  felt,  ever  since  their 
engagement.  Daphne  is  Nigel's  chance  in  life,  because  she 
likes  him,  not  irresponsibly,  as  you  did,  but  responsibly.  And 
she  has  got  just  the  quality  he  hasn't. " 

"Feeling?" 

"Yes.     Feeling." 

Hugh  said  nothing:  he  only  sat  and  looked  at  it,  as  if  he 
could  not  trust  himself  to  say  the  things  that  rose  to  his  lips. 
There  was  a  long  pause. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  then?"  he  said  at  last.  Her 
whole  manner  had  told  him  that  she  was  going  to  do  something. 
Mrs.  Leonard  smiled  a  little  at  his  quick  recognition  of  what  she 
had  not  said. 

"There  are  only  two  things  to  do,"  she  said.  "Up  to  now 
I  have  hardly  said  anything  to  Daphne  of  my  feelings  about  the 
war  and  the  way  it's  being  taken  by  people  here.  But  I  can't 
go  on  like  that.  It's  an  unnatural  relation  between  me  and 


266  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

Daphne,  and  dreadfully  painful  to  us  both.  Because  it  isn't 
as  if  she  didn't  know  that  I'm  keeping  things  back.  That 
means  I  must  either  talk  to  her — in  other  words,  fight  against 
Nigel — or  I  must  go  away  and  leave  the  field  to  him."  She 
paused.  Hugh  knocked  out  his  pipe  against  his  boot,  and  then 
slowly  re-filled  it. 

"Daphne  could  see?"  he  said  at  last. 

"Yes,  she  could  see,  and  my  being  here  and  seeing  as  I  do 
is  all  the  time,  even  when  I  say  nothing,  exercising  a  kind  of  pull 
on  her,  away  from  him.  .  .  .  She  asked  me,  for  instance, 
whether  I  didn't  think  his  article — 'Why  We  are  Right' — 
splendid. " 

Hugh  made  no  comment. 

"So  you  see,  if  I  stay,  I'm  tearing  her  in  two." 

Hugh  nodded. 

"Truth  pulls  one  way,  Nigel  another.  Yes.  Then  Nigel 
ought  to  go. " 

Mrs.  Leonard  shook  her  head. 

"Ah,  Hugh,  it's  not  so  simple  as  that.  We  think  truth  is 
on  our  side,  you  and  I;  but  Nigel  doesn't.  The  antithesis  in 
effect  would  be  not  between  truth  and  Nigel,  but  between  me 
and  Nigel.  And  there's  more  in  it  than  that.  This  isn't  my 
problem.  It's  Daphne's.  One  can't,  ever,  do  another  human 
being's  thinking  for  them.  Or  their  suffering  either,  if  it  comes 
to  that.  That's  the  agony  of  every  parent.  One  has  to  see  and 
stand  aside.  ...  I  haven't  the  right,  even  if  it  were  possible, 
to  make  Daphne  see. " 

"And  her  seeing,  as  you  call  it,  seeing  the  war,  involves  every- 
thing else?  " 

Hugh  was  vague  in  phrase,  but  his  meaning  was  clear 
enough  for  Mrs.  Leonard;  too  clear  for  her  to  be  ready  with  a 
reply.  When  her  answer  did  come,  it  might  have  sounded 
irrelevant. 

"Daphne  isn't  forty-two,  like  you  and  me,  Hugh.  She's 
twenty-two. " 

"Yes."  Hugh  accepted  the  fact  with  its  implications. 
"You  mean,  among  other  things,  that  she  wants  to  think  as 
Nigel  thinks,  not  have  him  think  as  she  does?  " 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  267 

"Partly.  Anyhow,  whatever  her  strength,  and  I  think  she 
is  strong,  she  doesn't  know  it.  But  I  do  still  hope  that  her  feel- 
ing may  make  him  feel.  He  won't  see,  but  he  might  feel. " 

Hugh  was  silent. 

"  So  that  I  have  decided  to  go  away, "  Mrs.  Leonard  resumed 
after  a  pause  in  which  neither  said  anything.  "  If  they  marry 
towards  the  end  of  October,  that  leaves  eight  or  nine  weeks. 
.  .  .  Oh,  I  know  it  isn't  usual."  She  smiled  in  answer  to 
Hugh's  questioning  look.  "But  it's  not  a  usual  case.  I  trust 
Daphne  entirely,  and  Nigel  too.  They  must  work  this  thing 
out.  So  I'm  going." 

"To  Wending  End?" 

"Yes.     To  Wending  End. " 

"And  leaving  her  to  Nigel?" 

Mrs.  Leonard  nodded. 

Hugh  examined  the  ground.  She  did  not  need  to  tell  him 
what  that  would  cost.  He  knew.  It  was  not  a  thing  to  be 
talked  of,  even  between  them. 

"You  think  he's  worth  it?"  he  said  at  last.  On  that  Mrs. 
Leonard's  eyes  met  his. 

"She  loves  him,"  was  all  she  said.  It  seemed  enough. 
Hugh  made  no  further  remark. 

The  shadows  lengthened  and  deepened,  a  faint  breeze,  rising, 
brought  a  few  pale  leaves  fluttering  down.  Hugh  watched  them 
as  they  fell.  Between  the  far  trees  he  again  caught  sight  of  a 
white  dress. 

"  I'm  going  over  to  France  on  Tuesday. "  Hugh's  deep  voice 
broke  the  silence.  Mrs.  Leonard  started. 

"But,  Hugh!  And  you've  never  told  me  anything  about 
it." 

There  was  an  accent  of  reproach  in  her  tone.  Hugh  looked 
up. 

"No,"  he  said  apologetically.  "You  have  had  more  than 
enough  to  think  about.  I've  kept  away. " 

"I  know  you  have,"  she  took  him  up  quickly.  "But  if 
that's  your  idea  of  consideration!" 

Hugh  laughed  and  then  proceeded  to  explain,  not  very 
clearly,  why  he  had  come  to  this  decision.  "The  B.M.  seems 


268  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

absurd,  you  know.  There's  really  nothing  to  do.  There's  a 
man  who  can  keep  my  stuff  going  just  as  well  as  I  can,  and 
that's  all  any  one  can  do  at  the  moment.  But  what  decided  me 
was  that  Emerson — do  you  remember  him?  a  great  tall  raw- 
boned  chap  who  got  into  a  dreadful  mess  about  ten  years  ago?  " 

"Out  of  which  you  pulled  him — yes — I  remember  him.  Did 
he  marry  his  pretty  little  bank  clerk  in  the  end?" 

"No,  thank  goodness,  he  didn't.  I  happened  to  introduce 
him  to  a  most  extraordinary  girl.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  her 
some  time — yes,  really  extraordinary,  so  don't  smile  like  that — 
and  it  was  she  who  saved  Ted  Emerson,  not  me  at  all. " 

Mrs.  Leonard's  smile,  instead  of  fading,  had  broadened;  but 
it  was  an  entirely  tolerant,  affectionate  smile. 

"I  know,"  she  murmured.  "It  never  is  you,  but  by  acci- 
dent, somehow,  you  just  manage  to  be  able — by  no  merit  of 
your  own — to  do  the  really  saving  turn  just  at  the  crucial 
moment.  It's  odd  those  accidents  don't  happen  to  other  people, 
that's  all.  But  go  on  about  Emerson.  He  became  a  doctor, 
didn't  he?" 

"Yes.  He'd  always  longed  to,  that  was  what  made  him 
go  wrong;  he  was  so  wretched,  all  the  good  stuff  in  him  being 
thwarted.  Now  he's  a  great  success:  a  really  admirable 
doctor.  Poplar  adores  him;  so  they  ought  to.  Well,  Emerson 
is  taking  out  a  Red  Cross  unit  to  'France;  a  lot  of  boys  I  know 
are  in  it,  and  he  had  an  idea  that  I  could  help,  do  the  accounts 
and  so  on,  all  the  non-medical  part,  of  which,  I  gather,  there's 
plenty.  Anyhow,  he  swears  I  shall  be  of  use.  .  .  .  It's  difficult 
to  feel  one  is  any  here.  It  isn't  as  if  I  could  write:  that's  your 
job,  Aurelia.  And  I  do  want — if  one  is  ever  going  to  do  a  hand's 
turn  in  getting  this  ghastly  mess  straightened  out — to  know 
some  of  the  facts.  The  whole  combination  is  weak — my 
motives,  I  mean.  ...  I  only  hope  you  don't  see  it  as  unmixedly 
contemptible?" 

Mrs.  Leonard  rolled  and  unrolled  her  sunshade.  At  his 
last  phrase  she  smiled. 

"  Dear  Hugh,  am  I  such  a  slave  to  words?  I  know  how  you'll 
hate  it,  and  I'm  sure  you'll  be  very  useful.  ...  I  wish  Nigel 
would  go  too. " 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  269 

"Oh,  Nigel's  of  use  here.  And  he'll  have  a  quite  free  field, 
if  we  both  go  away. " 

Mrs.  Leonard  sighed.  She  might  have  been  looking  at  it, 
that  free  field,  as  she  gazed  out  over  the  grass,  to  where  above 
the  tree-tops  the  sky  slowly  thickened  to  an  opaque  gold.  Hugh 
glanced  at  her  abstracted  face:  she  was  unconscious  of  his  eyes, 
and  he  could  let  them  rest.  She  was  thinking,  he  knew,  of 
Daphne,  not  of  him.  His  going  to  France  affected  her,  it 
seemed,  mainly  because  of  the  light  it  cast  back  upon  Daphne's 
Nigel,  who  stayed  at  home.  Hugh  almost  wished  he  had  not 
told  her,  as  he  saw  how  this  thought  must  work  in  her  mind. 
He  felt,  too,  almost  as  though  he  were  deserting.  He  might 
have  "looked  after"  Daphne  had  he  stayed.  But  whether  his 
view  of  Nigel  or  Aurelia's  were  the  true  one,  Daphne  must 
look  after  herself.  Mrs.  Leonard  was  right,  absolutely  right; 
but  Hugh  fully  understood  that  none  of  all  the  hard  things  that 
had  come  to  her  to  do  had  been  so  hard  as  this  decision  to  go 
away  and  do  nothing.  He  was  almost  sorry  he  had,  perhaps, 
made  it  a  little  harder  by  expressing  what  he  felt  about  Nigel 
Strode.  There  were  things  that  it  was  dangerous,  even  cruel 
to  express,  true  though  they  were.  Once  one  uttered  them, 
they  became  so  much  more  menacing.  He  understood  that 
Aurelia  wanted  to  feel  the  war,  and  her  own  attitude  about  it, 
the  main  problem;  but  he  knew  that  she  saw  further  than  that, 
because,  being  what  she  was,  she  could  not  allow  that  to  think 
one  way  or  the  other  about  the  war  was  an  isolated  or  a  merely 
intellectual  question.  It  was  a  moral  not  a  mathematical  test. 
Some  people  might  hold  the  views  Nigel  held  honestly,  but  with 
Nigel  they  were,  fundamentally,  dishonest.  He  saw  that  and 
he  thought  that  Aurelia  saw  it.  She  saw  it,  but  she  would  not, 
could  not,  as  yet,  go  on  to  ask  whether  that  did  not  stand  for  the 
whole  of  Nigel. 

Nigel  and  Daphne  were  approaching  over  the  grass.  They 
were  a  pair  pleasing  to  the  eye;  as  they  came  on  they  might 
have  made  the  coloured  cover  for  any  happy-ending  novel.  It 
was  all  very  well  thinking  about  Nigel  in  cold  blood;  the  real 
Nigel  would  always  have  the  world  at  his  feet.  His  straw  hat 
in  his  hand,  the  sun  touching  his  fair  hair  so  that  it  shone,  his 


270  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

eyes  very  blue,  his  mouth  lifted  in  his  crooked  smile,  he  looked 
young,  younger  at  that  moment  than  Daphne.  For  Daphne's 
face  was  clouded;  the  smile  with  which  she  greeted  her  mother 
was  a  fugitive  thing,  that  died  away  at  once;  and  the  handker- 
chief in  her  hand  crushed  into  a  tight  ball  suggested  many  things. 
Hugh  got  up  to  give  her  his  chair.  She  sat  down  a  little  wearily. 

"We  want  to  consult  you  about  something,  Mrs.  Leonard," 
Nigel  began,  after  they  had  exchanged  a  few  words  about  the 
evening  papers  they  had  failed  to  get  and  the  beauty  of  the  sky. 
Hugh  made  a  motion  towards  going. 

"Don't  go,  old  man,"  said  Nigel  easily.  "It's  nothing 
you  may  not  share.  It's  about  our  wedding. " 

Daphne  looked  up,  almost  as  if  surprised,  her  cheeks  flush- 
ing. She  opened  her  lips  to  speak,  but  said  nothing.  Nigel 
continued,  looking  at  Mrs.  Leonard  as  he  spoke — 

"We  haven't  really  discussed  it  yet,  out  I  know  Daphne 
feels  just  as  I  do.  That  this  is  not  a  time  for  personal  happi- 
ness. " 

Mrs.  Leonard  faced  him,  her  eyes  grave.  She  glanced  from 
him  to  her  daughter.  But  Daphne  was  drawing  in  the  gravel 
with  her  parasol. 

"Yes?"  said  Mrs.  Leonard,  as  if  waiting  for  more.  Nigel 
hesitated. 

"Everything's  so  terrible;  there's  so  much  to  do — it  seems 
to  me,  somehow,  inappropriate  to  be  thinking  of  oneself — to 
be  preparing  one's  own  happiness." 

There  was  again  a  silence.  Hugh  moved  a  few  paces  away. 
Mrs.  Leonard  clasped  her  hands. 

"Of  course,  if  you  both  feel  this  I  won't  say  a  word.  It's 
entirely  a  matter  for  your  own  feelings.  .  .  ."  She  paused 
and  looked  again  at  Daphne;  but  Daphne's  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  sand.  She  could  not  see  her  face.  Nigel's  told  her 
nothing.  "You  have  discussed  it  together  and  come  to  this 
decision." 

Daphne  looked  up:  her  eyes,  wandering  over  the  group, 
avoided  her  mother's,  but  encountered  Hugh's  as  a  turn 
in  his  short  perambulation  brought  him  back  to  the  chairs. 
Hugh  received  from  them  an  extraordinarily  direct  impression. 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  271 

He  knew,  Daphne's  eyes  told  him,  that  Nigel  and  she  had 
not  discussed  it,  that  this  was  the  first  intimation  to  her  as 
to  them;  and,  as  Daphne's  eyes  held  him,  he  knew  beyond 
this,  that  she  was  imploring  him  to  keep  this  knowledge  to 
himself.  He  could  only  look  back  an  unwilling  acquiescence, 
and  be  thankful,  as  he  turned  again,  that  he  was  going 
away. 

Mrs.  Leonard  went  on — 

"I  don't  know  whether  you  are  wise  or  not  .  .  .  but  if 
you  both  feel  the  time  .  .  .  inauspicious  .  .  .  there's  nothing 
more  to  be  said." 

"I  do,"  Nigel  accepted  the  word  eagerly.  "That's  just 
what  I  feel.  It's  inauspicious.  One  oughtn't  to  be  happy 
at  a  time  like  this." 

Mrs.  Leonard  looked  at  him,  growing  a  little  pale  as 
she  did  so;  and  then  again  at  Daphne,  who  raised  her 
hand  as  if  to  shield  something  off.  There  were  too  many 
things  to  be  said,  so  many  that  it  seemed  impossible  to  say 
any.  Nigel  had  found  his  word  now — inauspicious  seemed 
to  be  for  him  a  kind  of  talisman,  and  he  expounded 
his  idea  for  a  few  minutes,  speaking  quickly,  easily, 
glancing  from  Daphne,  who  did  not  once  raise  her  eyes 
to  his,  to  her  mother,  who  held  hers  fixed  upon  his 
face. 

When  he  had  finished  she  rose. 

"This  is  a  thing  upon  which  I  cannot  say  anything:  you 
two  must  settle  it.  ...  I  see  you  have  settled  it,  Nigel." 
There  was  no  emphasis  on  the  pronoun:  her  eyes  included 
Daphne  and  Nigel  in  one.  "I  know  this  is  a  very  trying 
time  for  you  both,  for  every  one.  I  had  rather  hoped  that 
you  would  soon  be  together  and  find  in  union  a  strength  that 
would  help  you  not  merely  to  bear  it,  but  to  find  something 
in  it  beyond  endurance." 

Daphne  was  looking  up  now,  but  she  remained  silent. 

"But  it  is  for  you  to  decide.  You  must  find  your  own 
way.  It's  a  big  decision,  one  way  or  the  other,  and  you  will 
want  to  talk  it  over  together  more  fully.  .  .  .  Anyhow,  my 
own  plan  remains.  I  have  decided  to  go  away,  Nigel,  for 


272  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

a  time.  No,  not  to  France.  I  am  too  old  and  not  strong 
enough  to  be  of  any  use  there,  even  if  I  wanted  to 
go.  I  am  going  down  to  the  country  to  stay  with  an 
old  servant  of  mine  who's  got  two  sons  in  the  army;  she's 
anxious  and  lonely." 

"I'm  so  glad,"  cried  Nigel.  "That  will  be  good  for 
you.  You  look  very  tired.  London  is  rather  terrible 
nowadays;  more  terrible  to  you,  I  suppose,  even  than 
to  us." 

"Daphne  and  I  have  made  all  our  plans,"  Mrs.  Leonard 
went  on.  "She  will  be  busy  with  her  workrooms." 

Hugh  Infield  suddenly  rejoined  the  group.  He  had  wan- 
dered away  during  the  last  passage. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "there's  a  very  heavy  dew  fall- 
ing? You'll  catch  cold  in  those  thin  dresses." 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE 

SEPTEMBER  passed  into  October,  and  the  beauty  of 
the  year  lingered  as  if  unwilling  to  depart.  Even  in 
London,  day  followed  day  of  tranquil  sunshine,  with  the 
last  golden  leaves  lingering  on  the  trees,  the  Park  a  romance 
of  blue-grey  mist  in  the  mornings  and  the  sky  full  of  stars 
at  night.  For  all  her  lovers  the  town  had  never  shown  her- 
self in  more  perfect  beauty.  But  even  to  the  most  impas- 
sioned of  them,  this  beauty  was  charged  with  irony.  For 
over  it  all  there  spread  like  a  miasma  the  horror  of  the  war, 
hiding  everything  else  away.  London  was  far  from  the 
torture  of  Belgium  and  Poland,  the  agony  of  France, 
yet  gradually  even  London  became  impregnated  with 
the  sense  of  the  slow  actuality  of  war.  Social  life  ceased: 
men  disappeared  into  training  in  remote  parts  of  the 
country — to  Egypt,  India  and  the  Persian  Gulf.  Women  were 
absorbed  in  multifarious  organisations.  Every  activity, 
from  knitting  to  the  making  of  shells,  was  dominated 
by  a  single  hideous  purpose.  Artists  stared  at  ruin 
and  hastened,  where  they  could,  to  enlist.  The  intel- 
lectuals bowed  their  heads  and  cried  aloud  that  the  muscle 
makes  the  man. 

Every  one  lived  in  and  for  the  moment,  and  each 
moment  seemed  interminable  as  day  followed  day  without 
recognisable  difference  or  change.  Few  people  now  snatched 
at  evening  papers  in  the  hope  of  news  of  decisive  victory. 
But  as  the  hope  of  the  end  receded,  passions  grew,  and 
on  pure  enthusiasm  there  followed  all  the  ugly  variations 
of  hate. 

273 


274  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

Mrs.  Leonard,  in  the  country,  watching  the  signs, 
could  trace  a  subtle  modification  of  opinion.  As  the 
contest  grew  more  and  more  serious,  illusions  fell  and 
withered  one  by  one.  The  papers  still  talked  of  a  holy  war. 
Idealistic  liberals  continued  to  dream  of  the  inauguration 
of  the  reign  of  peace  through  murderous  exhaustion.  Prag- 
matists  planned  a  new  Europe  on  nationalistic  lines. 
Slowly,  however,  the  thing  began  to  be  seen  for  what 
it  was:  a  holocaust  of  ideals,  a  trampling  underfoot  of 
the  slow  gains  of  civilisation,  the  suicidal  rending  of 
humanity  by  itself.  She  wondered  whether  the  jour- 
nalists still  believed  in  their  own  articles.  It  made  small 
difference  however;  the  monstrous  stone  would  roll  on  now, 
with  gathering  momentum,  down  the  hill.  No  garlands  of 
flowers  could  stay  or  delay  it. 

Nigel  had  welcomed  Mrs.  Leonard's  departure  as  prom- 
ising a  truce  to  difficult  discussion.  And  so  at  first 
it  proved.  Daphne  had  been  transferred  from  the  relief 
committee  at  Limehouse  to  the  big  workroom  opened 
further  West,  and  there  she  found  herself  exceedingly 
busy.  She  had  to  learn  a  new  routine  and  adapt  her 
mind  to  new  work,  requiring  quick,  responsible  judgment, 
decision  and  tact  in  managing  large  bodies  of  girls.  She  was 
so  successful  in  this  that  before  many  weeks  had  passed 
she  had  been  made  head  of  the  workrooms.  The  work, 
though  interesting,  was  tiring.  Once  more  she  had  little 
time  free  save  the  evening  in  which  to  see  Nigel.  That 
and  the  distance  from  him  which  her  taking  up  her 
quarters  with  Chris  Bampton  and  Gertrude  Fenner  in 
Baker  Street  involved,  meant  fewer  opportunities  for 
talk,  and  most  of  those  opportunities  restricted.  Yet 
as  the  time  passed  on  each  was  aware  that  it  was  not 
merely  absence  of  time  that  kept  them  mutually  silent 
on  a  growing  number  of  questions  which  it  would,  earlier, 
have  been  natural,  indeed  inevitable,  to  discuss  openly 
and  freely.  Neither  would  have  admitted  that  they 
were  left  thus  on  one  side  because  they  held  possibilities  of 
disagreement,  but  the  fear  of  disagreement  slumbered  un- 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  275 

easily  beneath  their  silences.  They  hardly  talked  of 
the  war,  in  its  more  general  bearing;  and  after  one  diffi- 
cult conversation,  difficult  for  all  its  apparent  lightness, 
the  question  of  Nigel's  applying  for  a  commission  was 
left  likewise.  He  had  raised  this  himself,  saying  he  felt  he 
ought  to  go;  but  when  Daphne  agreed  with  him,  he  seemed 
both  surprised  and  disappointed. 

"Your  mother  would  be  horrified,"  he  urged. 

"Yes,  but  mother  thinks  the  war  wrong.  You  think 
it  right.  You  want  other  people  to  go,"  was  her  unsatis- 
factory reply,  a  reply  tainted  with  Mrs.  Leonard's  logic 
chopping.  She  ought  to  have  felt  that  duty  retained 
at  home  any  one  with  a  real  power  of  affecting  opinion  in 
the  right  way;  but  though  she  admitted  the  force  of 
that  argument,  it  was  left  for  Nigel  himself  to  bring  it 
forward. 

The  date  of  their  marriage  was  a  topic  still  less  capable 
of  discussion;  and  on  this  Nigel  found  that  her  disagreement 
was  deeper  than  he  had  suspected,  deeper  and  most 
tiresomely  complicated.  Feeling  one  day  more  than  or- 
dinarily weary  of  daily  life,  and  oppressed  by  the  sense  of 
overarching  calamity,  he  suddenly  voiced  a  desire  to  have  a 
great  deal  of  money,  for  then  they  might  go  abroad  to- 
gether, away  to  some  balmy  Pacific  island,  and  escape 
from  the  whole  thing.  Daphne  agreed  joyously,  and  for 
some  time  they  were  more  happily  employed  than  they  had 
been  for  long,  more  absolutely  unanimous,  in  building 
castles  and  planning  the  details  of  the  serene  life  they 
might  there  lead.  Then  Daphne's  face  clouded.  When  Nigel 
interrogated  her  as  to  what  was  the  matter,  she  was  rather 
incoherent. 

"That's  all  right  for  me,  Nigel,"  she  said.  "I  don't  ex- 
pect myself  to  be  bigger  than  that.  I  don't  understand  the 
war;  it's  just  a  horror,  and  so  I  only  want  to  run  away 
and  hide.  .  .  .  But  you  feel  it's  a  great  thing.  .  .  .  So, 
you  ought  not  to  want  to  escape.  .  .  .  What  makes  you 
want  to  escape?  Love  ought  to  make  one  welcome  great 
things,  rise  to  them,  not  try  to  escape.  Is  my  love  a  little, 


276  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

reducing  thing?  That's  what  worries  me.  Sometimes  it 
seems  to  be." 

All  Nigel  could  say  was,  "Don't  let's  talk  about  it  any- 
more; we  shall  never  agree."  He  was  annoyed  and  per- 
plexed. 

His  annoyance  and  perplexity  were  to  grow.  This  con- 
versation seemed  to  have  started  her  mind  at  work 
upon  the  whole  question  of  the  war  again.  Shortly 
afterwards  she  admitted  that  she  was  deep  in  the  Diplo- 
matic Correspondence;  and  a  few  days  later  there  followed 
an  incident,  trifling  enough  in  itself,  which  showed  him  that 
her  thinking  had  gone  on,  and  was  developing  on  very  vexing 
lines.  They  had  met  for  lunch  at  a  restaurant  half-way  be- 
tween the  workroom  and  the  New  World  office,  and  tempted 
by  the  warm  sunshine  had  wandered,  afterwards,  into  the 
Embankment  Gardens,  where  they  sat  down  on  a  seat  facing 
the  river.  After  a  few  words  they  relapsed  into  silence.  Nigel 
stared  at  the  river,  so  did  Daphne.  On  the  seat  be- 
hind them  he  had  noticed,  when  they  sat  down,  a  young- 
ish working  woman,  and  a  child  of  three  or  four  years 
old;  the  child's  face  was  wan  with  a  more  than  London 
pallor,  and  its  limbs  extraordinarily  thin.  Nigel  had 
suggested  to  Daphne,  when  he  saw  them,  that  they  should 
move  on,  but  she  was  tired  and  they  stayed.  All  at  once 
he  became  aware  that  Daphne  was  listening  to  the  whimpering 
of  the  child. 

"I  want  my  daddy.  .  .  .  Mummy,  when  is  he  coming 
back?" 

"Soon,  dearie,"  said  the  woman  in  a  weary  voice,  as  if 
she  had  already  said  it  hundreds  of  times. 

He  glanced  round  and  met  the  woman's  eyes,  deep  sunken 
in  her  wasted  face. 

"Mummy,"  the  plaintive  voice  began  again.  "Will  he 
really  come  back  soon?" 

Daphne  leaned  over  the  back  of  the  seat,  and  taking  a 
carnation  from  her  buttonhole  gave  it  to  the  child.  She  smelt 
it  for  a  few  moments,  then  let  it  drop  from  a  listless 
hand. 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  277 

"She  doesn't  look  very  well,"  said  Daphne  to  the  mother. 
"Poor  little  mite!  so  thin."  The  woman's  eyes  met 
hers. 

"No,  miss.  I've  taken  her  to  the  doctor,  and  he  says 
he  can't  do  nothing  for  her.  She's  fretting  for  her  father.  .  .  . 
Look,  dearie,  look  at  that  pretty  dog." 

The  child's  attention  was  distracted  for  a  moment,  and 
its  mother  went  on,  encouraged  by  the  sympathy  she  saw 
in  Daphne's  eyes — 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  her,  miss.  She  cries  all 
night — I  can't  get  her  to  sleep — always  asking  for  her  father. 
Nothing  else  will  do.  And  I  heard  two  days  ago  that  Jim 
was  killed  in  France." 

Daphne  was  sitting  by  the  woman  now,  and  at  this  took 
her  hand  and  pressed  it  without  saying  anything.  The  woman's 
eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  she  repeated.  "I  can't  tell 
her,  you  see;  but  I  feel  sure  she  really  knows.  .  .  .  She  will 
ask  for  him.  .  .  ." 

Daphne  continued  to  talk  to  the  woman  for  some  time 
in  a  soft  voice.  At  last  she  rose,  taking  the  child  in  her  arms 
and  moved  slowly  away.  Daphne  came  back  and  sat  down 
beside  Nigel.  Nigel  looked  at  her,  and  the  suffering  in  her 
face  gave  him  a  sudden  pang.  The  incident  was  nothing, 
these  things  were  happening  all  over  Europe,  every  day; 
but  it  was  hard  that  Daphne  should  feel  it  so.  He  laid  his 
hand  over  hers.  The  colour  in  her  cheek  showed  him  that 
she  felt  it,  though  she  said  nothing. 

"Dearest,"  he  said  after  a  pause  "you  mustn't  feel 
it  so." 

Daphne  looked  up. 

"Oh,  Nigel,  yes,"  she  said.  "Do  you  know,  I  don't  think 
I've  felt  it  half  enough.  ...  I'm  ashamed  when  I  think 
that  mother's  feelings  seemed  to  me  exaggerated.  I  have 
been  appallingly  dull  and  blind.  I've  just  covered  it  all  up; 
hidden  away  all  the  things  that  hurt  to  see.  I  haven't  thought 
of  these  people  as  real  at  all,  or  what  it  means  for  men  to  go 
and  kill  and  want  to  kill." 


278  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

"Ah,  but  that's  morbid,"  cried  Nigel.  "They're  going  out 
to  be  killed,  poor  dears,  not  to  kill." 

"Yes,  they're  going  to  be  killed.  But  we,  we  who  sit 
at  home,  we  want  them  to  kill:  kill  as  many  as  they  can.  It's 
what  Tolstoi  says:  what  is  terrible  is  not  suffering  and  death, 
but  that  men  should  desire  suffering  and  death;  and  we  are 
doing  that,  every  minute.  That  woman,  whose  husband's 
been  killed  on  the  Aisne,  feels  just  what  I  should  feel  if  you 
were  killed,  Nigel.  And  yet,  when  my  love  ought  to  make 
me  understand  that,  I've  used  it  as  an  excuse  for  hiding  my 
eyes  and  wanting  to  escape.  .  .  .  And  you,  you've  made 
me  worse,  Nigel.  Yes,"  she  cried,  as  he  made  a  gesture  of 
protest,  "you  have.  Because  deep  down  you  don't  really 
feel  it  either.  You  don't  really  mind,  really  care.  It  hasn't 
broken  up  and  upset  your  life.  It  hasn't  made  you  see  things 
differently.  You're  just  the  same  as  you  always  were.  It's 
outside  of  you,  all  this,  just  as  it's  outside  of  me.  You  aren't 
horrified,  you  aren't  appalled.  Even  the  way  the  Church  takes 
it  only  makes  you  laugh.  Laugh!  ...  It  terrifies  me,  because 
it  makes  me  feel  there's  something  wrong,  something  weak  in 
our  love  if  it  shuts  us  up  in  cotton  wool  when  this  is  going  on  all 
round  us." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do  then?"  asked  Nigel,  rather 
at  a  loss. 

"I  don't  know.  I  wish  I  did.  .  .  .  No,  no,  I'm  not  sug- 
gesting that  I  want  you  to  go  out  and  kill.  I  don't.  It's  far 
more  complicated  than  that  ...  I  don't  think  I  want  you  to 
do  anything,  only  to  feel  it. " 

At  first  Nigel  met  this  attack  with  raillery.  Then  he  be- 
came indignant,  reminding  Daphne  that  in  August  he  had  felt 
far  more  than  she  had.  In  the  end  it  left  him  more  than  a  little 
disturbed. 

For  it  was  true.  It  drove  home  what  he  had  begun  to  realise 
weeks  before,  but  wished  to  leave  alone:  the  knowledge  that  the 
great  uplift  the  war  had  given  him  was  over.  It  had  spent  itself 
just  as  the  purely  personal  uplift  which  Daphne  had  once  given 
him  had  done.  Now  that  Daphne  had  found  it  out,  he  could 
not  leave  it  alone.  She  seemed  to  think  that  his  not  "feeling 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  279 

the  war,"  as  she  phrased  it,  was  somehow  due  to  her,  but  he 
knew  that  he  felt  it  more  when  he  was  with  her  than  at  any  other 
time,  except  when  he  was  writing.  But  even  when  he  was  most 
shaken  he  was  not  shaken  to  his  depths.  She  had  discovered  it; 
and  her  discovery  he  could  not  refute,  for  self-consciousness 
confirmed  her.  Without  her  he  might  have  continued  to  feel  the 
war  as  an  escape,  but  now  she  was  forcing  him  to  realise  it 
as  nothing  of  the  kind.  As  she  made  him  see  it,  it  was  not 
an  escape;  on  the  contrary,  it  was  the  strongest  call  upon  him 
to  be  himself  that  he  had  yet  to  meet.  He  had  fled,  it  seemed, 
before  Mrs.  Leonard's  logic  only  to  be  faced  by  a  demand  at 
least  as  resolute  for  lucidity  of  another  kind.  Daphne  did  not 
insist  upon  his  understanding  the  causes  and  seeing  the  result  as 
wrong;  she  did  not  appeal  to  reason  or  call  to  him  to  sit  down 
and  argue  fine-drawn  points.  She  did  not  ask  whether  the 
war  were  or  were  not  inevitable  and  just;  she  merely  saw  it  as 
horror  and  asked  him  to  feel  it.  And  he  could  not  do  it.  Her 
words,  her  whole  attitude  drove  him  in  upon  himself,  and  in 
himself  he  found  emptiness. 

They  were  both  later  to  look  back  to  this  conversation  as  a 
kind  of  landmark,  for  it  was  less  than  a  week  later  that  they  had 
their  first  quarrel.  By  ordinary  standards  it  perhaps  hardly 
deserved  that  name;  but  both  Nigel  and  Daphne  knew  it  for 
what  it  was,  and  it  arose  directly  from  their  talk  on  the  Em- 
bankment. Nothing  had  happened  there,  yet  Daphne  had 
returned  to  work  feeling  wretched,  with  a  wretchedness  to  which 
she  could  not  give  a  name,  bruised  and  baffled;  Nigel  had  made 
his  way  back  to  Fleet  Street  thoroughly  disturbed. 

On  his  desk  he  found  a  short  note  from  Hugh  Infield,  the 
first  he  had  had  from  him  since  his  going  to  France;  and  a  letter 
from  Jeffries,  who  was  in  camp  on  Salisbury  Plain.  Neither  of 
them  said  anything  interesting.  After  a  few  moments'  reflection 
Nigel  called  for  a  file  of  the  New  World  since  August,  and  began 
glancing  through  the  leaders  with  a  view  to  discovering  whether 
they  gave  any  colour  to  Daphne's  suggestion  that  the  catas- 
trophe had  not  really  shaken  him.  It  was  strange  now  to  re- 
read the  Editorials  of  the  first  weeks  of  August  and  recall  the 
white  heat  at  which  they  had  been  written.  .Very  well  written, 


280  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

too,  he  candidly  thought  them,  as  he  reviewed  them  now,  quite 
as  good  as  many  of  the  thoughts  that  had  reappeared  in  the 
dignity  of  book  or  pamphlet  form.  That  was  not  the  time, 
he  still  thought,  for  dwelling  on  horrors.  There  were  other 
aspects  rightly  prominent  in  taking  up  the  sword.  After  all, 
horrors  were  obvious;  and  when  you  wanted  men  to  join  the 
army  there  was  good  reason  against  them.  But  perhaps 
Daphne  was  right,  the  time  had  come  now  for  looking  at  that 
side.  Number  four  of  his  articles  on  the  cost  of  the  war  might 
well  be  something  of  the  kind.  Hugh  and  Jeffries  had  proved 
useless,  but  it  ought  to  be  easy  enough  to  get  hold  of  a  certain 
number  of  facts  and  make  a  column  of  stuff  that  would  bring  the 
thing  home  to  people  and  prove,  incidentally,  to  Daphne  that 
she  had  been  wrong:  and  to  himself  also,  perhaps. 

Accordingly  on  Saturday  the  New  World's  fourth  page  was 
devoted  to  an  attempt  to  visualise  a  modern  battlefield.  Nigel, 
reading  his  paper  at  breakfast,  felt  pleased  with  his  performance, 
and  after  a  telephone  conversation  with  Edgar  Nugent,  who 
rang  him  up  to  ask  whether  he  were  ass  enough  to  be  starting  a 
"Stop  the  war"  campaign,  he  thought  that  Daphne  was  sure  to 
approve  of  him.  So  sure  did  he  feel  that  he  rang  her  up  at  the 
workroom  to  bid  her  to  lunch.  To  lunch  she  came,  but  with  a 
face  so  grave  and  a  manner  so  distraite  that  he  thought  she  could 
not  be  well.  A  battlefield  article  did  not  seem  at  all  the  thing 
to  discuss  at  lunch — Nigel  had  a  strong  sense  of  times  and 
seasons — so  he  chatted  lightly  of  other  things.  But  Daphne  was 
difficult.  She  replied  to  his  remarks,  but  gave  him  no  help  in 
initiating  subjects,  and  lunch  dragged.  Nigel  regretted  that  he 
had  refused  to  go  down  to  Tenacre  by  the  early  train.  He  had 
promised  to  speak  at  a  recruiting  meeting  of  Edgar's  in  the 
evening,  and  it  would  have  been  less  tiring  to  go  early  with 
him.  He  had  stayed  to  see  Daphne;  it  hardly  seemed  worth 
while. 

When  coffee  had  been  brought  in  and  they  were  left  on  the 
sofa,  Daphne  still  said  nothing.  She  gazed  at  Hugh's  Japanese 
embroidered  panel  over  the  mantelpiece  as  if  she  had  never 
seen  it  before. 

"The  face  is  like  mother,  isn't  it?"  she  said  suddenly. 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  281 

"So  Hugh  says,"  Nigel  agreed.  "But  I  have  never  been 
able  to  see  it. " 

She  looked  away  from  the  picture  to  him  for  a  moment. 

"Have  you  heard  from  your  mother  lately?"  Nigel 
asked. 

"No.  .  .  .  Yes,  that's  to  say,  I  heard  on  Tuesday;  not 
since  then." 

"I've  sent  her  the  New  World.  ...  By  the  bye,  Daphne, 
you've  never  told  me  what  you  thought  of  the  article.  ...  I 
hope  it  convinced  you  that  I  do  feel  the  war. " 

Daphne  looked  at  him  with  a  strained  expression. 

"Oh,  Nigel,"  she  said.  "Do  you  call  that  feeling?"  He 
felt  distinctly  annoyed. 

"It's  my  idea  of  feeling,  I  confess."  Daphne  hid  her  face 
for  a  moment  in  her  hands. 

"My  dear  child,"  said  Nigel  patiently,  "what  on  earth  is 
the  matter?  Nugent  has  just  rung  me  up  to  ask  if  I  was 
founding  a  'Stop  the  War'  league,  so  you  see  he  thought  it 
strong  enough. " 

Daphne  uncovered  her  face,  but  she  did  not  look  at  him. 
Instead  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  seat  ring  on  the  third  finger 
of  her  left  hand,  and  turned  it  round  and  round  as  she  said  in  a 
low  voice — 

"Feeling!  No.  I  call  that  being  sick.  Why  gloat  over 
wounds  and  physical  horrors?  What  good  can  that  do?  " 

Nigel  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"I  think  you're  most  unreasonable,"  he  said,  and  walked 
away  across  the  room.  Daphne  stared  at  his  back. 

"Oh,  Nigel,"  she  murmured.     "Don't  you  understand?" 

He  turned  round  sharply. 

"No,"  he  said.  "I  don't.  I  don't  know  what  you're  at. 
I  think  you're  overwrought,  you  know.  I  hoped  when  your 
mother  went  away  that  you'd  be  able  to  see  things  more 
naturally  and  normally.  .  .  .  But  instead  you  get  worse.  ..." 

Daphne  made  no  reply.  A  silence  followed.  Nigel  looked 
at  her  as  she  sat  on  the  sofa,  leaning  back,  her  eyes  closed. 
She  looked  small  and  very  young,  and  he  felt  suddenly  sorry 
for  her.  He  came  and  sat  down  by  the  sofa  and  put  his  arm 


282  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

round  her;  awkwardly  enough,  for  her  hat  got  in  his  way,  and 
the  buttons  on  her  coat-sleeve  jarred  his  wrist. 

"Daphne,  this  isn't  like  you.  .  .  .  What  are  you  unhappy 
about?"  He  kissed  her  lightly  on  the  forehead. 

Daphne  opened  her  eyes,  starry  and  dim,  and  tried  to  say 
something.  But  there  seemed  to  be  a  lump  in  her  throat; 
she  only  gave  a  faint  smile  and  turned  away  her  head. 

"You  know,  Daphne,  we  shan't  ever  be  happy  if  you're  like 
this — if  you  take  things  like  this.  .  .  .  What  are  you  making 
yourself  unhappy  about?  I'm  sure  all  this  is  nothing." 

Daphne  looked  at  him;  her  eyes,  wide  open  now  and  clear, 
seemed  to  search  his  face. 

"Well?"  he  said,  after  a  moment. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  said  miserably.  "What  is  it, 
Nigel?  Something  is  happening  to  us. " 

Nigel  got  up  and  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Nothing  is  happening  but  that  you  need  a  rest  and  I  must 
catch  my  train.  I  shall  be  down  at  Tenacre  till  Tuesday  night, 
I  expect. " 

He  began  to  move  about  the  room,  collecting  papers  and 
putting  them  into  the  attache  case  that  lay  open  on  the  table. 
Daphne  got  up  too,  straightened  her  hat  and  drew  down  her 
veil.  She  had  lately  taken  to  a  veil,  on  Nigel's  recommenda- 
tion: he  thought  her  too  careless  in  the  way  she  put  her  hats 
on,  and  too  apt  to  take  them  off. 

"There's  a  hole  in  your  veil,"  he  said  now,  looking  at  her 
critically. 

His  tone  was  cool.  Daphne  felt  the  tears  rise  to  her  eyes. 
It  was  absurd  and  humiliating  that  to  be  told  she  had  a  hole 
in  her  veil  should  so  upset  her,  when  the  terrible  things  they 
had  been  saying — terrible  to  her,  though  apparently  not  to 
Nigel — left  her  calm.  But  she  could  not  answer,  could  not 
take  off  her  veil  and  readjust  it. 

Nothing  more  was  said.  They  went  down  the  narrow  stairs 
and  across  the  courtyard.  In  the  street  Nigel  hailed  a  taxi. 

"You'll  write  to  me,  Nigel?"  Daphne  made  an  effort. 

"Perhaps,"  he  smiled,  leaping  in. 

Women  were  incalculable,  he  thought,  as  he  leaned  back  in 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  283 

the  taxi.  Daphne  took  things  absurdly  sometimes.  It  was 
foolish  to  pay  too  much  attention  to  what  she  said,  she  was 
obviously  tired  and  nervy.  Hugh's  remarks  about  the  sacred 
terror  came  into  his  mind,  and  he  decided  that  this  little  scene 
must  be  another  instance  of  its  operation.  A  very  inconvenient 
thing  it  certainly  was,  that  created  mountains  out  of  molehills. 
No.  He  should  not  write  to  Daphne.  Letters  about  misunder- 
standings were  a  mistake. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO 

AT  the  recruiting  meeting  Nigel's  speech  was  a  decided 
success.  With  great  effect  he  employed  as  his  starting- 
point  his  own  article  in  the  New  World.  There  was  no 
danger  that  Sussex  would  have  read  it.  Even  the  gentry  in 
the  front  rows,  even  Mrs.  Nugent  in  the  centre  of  the  very  first, 
her  bright  eyes  fixed  on  his,  even  the  Vicar  in  the  Chair,  would 
not  get  it  until  the  evening,  and  then  reserve  it  to  assist  them 
through  the  somnolent  hours  after  Sunday's  lunch.  Such  was 
the  fate  of  weeklies,  Nigel  knew.  He  could  pass  safely  from  the 
horrors  of  the  battlefield,  thus  eloquently  delineated,  to  the 
causes  that  made  it  inevitable,  essential  for  a  nation  that  still 
held  its  head  high,  to  take  part  in  those  horrors.  For  a  rustic 
audience  they  could  be  simply  and  broadly  sketched — the  long- 
planned  malevolence  of  Germany,  the  innocence  of  Belgium, 
the  heritage  of  England's  glorious  past.  From  the  motives 
an  easy  transition  carried  him  to  the  future:  a  free  world,  ex- 
panding in  the  sun  that  shone  upon  it,  once  the  dark  cloud  of 
Prussian  militarism  was  swept  aside.  To  every  man  the  call 
was  clear  and  insistent.  Honour  had  made  it  impossible  for 
the  nation  to  stand  aside.  Now  every  day  was  proving  more 
clearly  that  this  was  not  only  a  war  of  ideals,  but  of  self-defence ; 
a  war  for  existence  in  which  every  man  who  was  a  man  must  take 
his  part. 

Nigel  sat  down  amid  mild  applause.  The  serried  rows  of 
people  at  the  back  were  torpid ;  but  to  make  up  for  their  dullness 
the  well-dressed  folks  in  front  were  enthusiastic.  Mrs.  Nugent's 
eyes  shone  yet  more  brightly,  and  she  recklessly  endangered 
her  white  kid  gloves  in  the  eagerness  of  her  clapping,  warmly 

284 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  285 

seconded  by  the  plump  middle-aged  gentleman  and  their 
cosy-looking  wives.  One  red-faced,  white-haired  old  man 
turned  in  his  seat  and  glared  angrily  round  the  hall,  as  if  to  mark 
who  hung  back.  There  was  a  short  pause,  in  which  no  one 
seemed  quite  clear  as  to  what  was  going  to  happen  next.  Then 
from  the  extreme  back  of  the  room  a  tall  young  man,  in  tweeds 
and  a  flannel  collar,  rose  to  his  feet,  and  in  an  unmistakable 
Cambridge  drawl  inquired  whether  questions  were  per- 
mitted. 

Edgar  Nugent,  on  the  platform,  leaned  over  to  the  Chair- 
man, who  was  on  the  point  of  rising  to  his  feet.  "Most  un- 
wise. Quite  unnecessary  at  a  meeting  of  this  character. 
Socialist. "  His  whisper  rose  to  an  audible  hiss. 

The  Chairman  hesitated  and  glanced  at  Nigel.  Nigel  shook 
his  head.  His  afflatus  had  subsided.  The  idea  of  further  exer- 
tion was  tiresome. 

The  Vicar  accordingly  got  on  to  his  feet  and  stated  that, 
in  view  of  the  object  of  the  meeting,  he  thought  that  no  useful 
end  would  be  served  by  putting  questions  to  the  speaker,  to 
whom  they  were  all  most  grateful.  It  would  be  better  to  let 
his  admirable  and  inspiring  words  (Hear,  hear)  sink  into  their 
minds.  This  was  not  a  time  for  controversy,  but  for  unanimous 
action.  Let  each  man  look  into  his  own  conscience.  (He 
stared  pointedly  at  a  group  of  youngish  men  in  muddy  corduroys 
near  the  door.)  Church  and  State,  with  a  single  voice  in  which 
all  distinctions  of  party  and  creed  had  been  laid  aside,  called 
on  them  to  remember  Christ's  words  when  He  said  that  He 
came  not  to  bring  Peace  but  a  Sword.  As  in  the  days  of  the 
Crusades,  so  now,  the  trumpet  call  had  sounded. 

The  would-be  questioner  had  resumed  his  seat  and  now 
leaned  forward,  his  eyes  fixed  with  an  ambiguous  expression  on 
the  Vicar,  whose  sonorous  voice  rolled  out.  as  though  he  were 
reading  the  lesson,  as  he  went  on  to  point  out  that  the  war  was 
God's  way  of  speaking  to  his  people.  Nigel  surveyed  the 
audience.  They  were  acquiescent,  but  altogether  inanimate. 
The  young  man  looked  disagreeably  alert  and  more  and  more 
contemptuous.  Before  the  homily  ended  he  had  got  up  and 
left  the  hall. 


286  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

"You  did  that  jolly  well,  Nigel,"  said  Edgar,  as  he  helped 
his  guest  into  his  overcoat  a  few  minutes  later.  "I  can't  think 
how  you  do  it.  I  always  feel  such  a  fool  when  I  tell  those  fellows 
they  ought  to  go  while  I  sit  tight.  They  don't  realise  the  thing 
a  bit,  you  know:  it  hasn't  come  home  to  them. " 

"No,"  said  his  wife.  "Their  apathy  is  awful.  On  the 
whole,  I  really  don't  think  we've  done  badly,  considering  the 
material. " 

"A  big  disaster  would  fetch  them,"  Nugent  went  on  cheer- 
fully. "Mons  gave  us  a  spurt,  but  this  deadlock  takes  the  life 
out  of  'em.  They  just  get  used  to  it  all.  But  I  hope  you've 
waked  them  up.  .  .  .  Jump  in,  old  man.  I  expect  you're 
dead." 

Patriotic  enthusiasm  was,  Nigel  admitted,  exhausting. 
Very  agreeable  it  was  to  sink  back  against  the  soft  cushions  of 
the  ample  motor-car  which  carried  them  so  smoothly  over  the 
heavy  mud  and  through  the  innumerable  little  streams  that  lay 
across  the  road.  The  sound  of  the  rain  beating  on  the  roof  and 
lashing  against  the  windows  enhanced  the  warmth  and  security 
within.  Even  more  agreeable  was  it,  on  arrival  at  Tenacre,  to 
find  an  enormous  fire  crackling  and  blazing  in  the  snug  smoking- 
room,  with  deep  chairs  in  a  circle  before  it,  and  on  a  polished 
round  table,  lit  by  a  rose-shaded  lamp,  good  things  to  eat,  drink 
and  smoke,  spread  out  in  sparkling  glass  and  silver.  It  was 
with  a  sense  of  delighted  repose  that  Nigel  lay  back  in  the  softest 
and  deepest  of  the  chairs,  his  feet  stretched  to  the  fire,  sipping 
whisky-and-soda  and  smoking  a  good  cigar;  repose  of  mind  no 
less  than  of  body,  for  in  the  easy  give  and  take  of  light  gossip 
with  Edgar  and  Mabel  there  was  no  need  to  wonder  whether 
one  were  saying  or  thinking  the  right  thing,  or  coming  up  to 
standards  not  one's  own.  He  knew  that  they  liked  him,  ap- 
proved of  him,  even  admired  him;  and  as  he  basked  in  that  kind- 
ly warmth  he  felt  that  he  had  latterly  been  unjust  to  himself; 
given  way  to  a  depression  for  which  there  was  no  need,  accepted 
limitations  that  were  not  really  there. 

After  inquiries  as  to  the  doings  and  whereabouts  of  various 
acquaintances,  and  an  account  of  his  own  recruiting  and  other 
activities,  Edgar  wandered  off.  He  was  apt  to  disappear: 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  287 

nice  though  he  was,  it  was  not  the  least  of  his  merits  that  he  so 
much  preferred  the  background. 

"I  hope  you  don't  mind  our  being  alone,"  said  Mabel. 
"We  haven't  really  seen  you  for  so  long.  That's  the  worst 
of  engaged  people."  She  smiled  archly.  "Ought  I  to  have 
asked  Daphne?" 

"Oh  dear  me,  no,"  cried  Nigel.  "We're  not  that  sort  of 
couple.  Besides,  Daphne  hates  recruiting  meetings.  She 
wouldn't  at  all  have  approved  of  my  speech.  She  thinks  you 
ought  either  to  enlist  yourself,  or  else  say  nothing  about  it; 
nothing  in  favour  of  it,  that  is. " 

Mrs.  Nugent  smiled  again,  a  deeply  comprehending 
smile. 

"She'd  have  to  change  her  mind  if  she  heard  you  speak," 
she  said.  "You  are  far  more  use  than  if  you  were  to  go  out. 
I  thought  your  description  of  the  battlefield  marvellous:  simply 
marvellous.  I  can't  think  how  you  do  it.  Of  course  you've 
such  an  imagination.  Mine  shrinks  away.  And  yet  I  feel  one 
ought  to  go  and  look.  As  it  is,  one  feels  so  out  of  it  all. " 

"It's  funny,"  said  Nigel.  "You  know,  Daphne  simply 
hated  that  description.  It's  an  article  in  the  New  World,  you'll 
see  it  to-morrow. " 

"Really?"  Mrs.  Nugent  looked  at  him  sympathetically. 
"But  I'm  so  glad  you've  'written  it  down.  It's  wonderful.  I 
want  to  read  it.  It's  dreadfully  painful,  of  course;  but  I  feel 
one  ought  to  face  those  things.  ...  Is  Daphne  a  pro-German, 
then?" 

"Heavens,  no,"  cried  Nigel.  "I  hope  she  has  more  sense 
than  that.  But  don't  ask  me  to  explain  her  attitude.  It's 
beyond  me." 

Mrs.  Nugent  still  wore  her  thoughtful  expression. 

" It  is  odd, "  she  murmured.  "But  people  are  cowards  often 
without  knowing  it,  aren't  they?  That's  why  I  admired  that 
description  of  yours  so  specially.  And  the  New  World  alto- 
gether. It  does  require  such  courage  to  hold  on  to  one's  ideals. 
One  has  such  an  inclination  just  to  sit  down  and  groan  and  say 
one  can't  bear  it,  and  turn  away  and  not  look.  To  see  it  all, 
and  see  that  it's  necessary  and  right — that's  big  work,  Nigel. 


288  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

Bigger  than  you  could  do  as  a  soldier.  As  a  soldier  you'd  only 
be  one  among  hundreds  of  thousands.  As  it  is,  you're  doing 
work  no  one  else  could  do.  You  do  feel  that,  don't  you?  You 
aren't  seriously  thinking  of  going  out?" 

"Oh  no,"  said  Nigel.  Indeed  he  was  not.  "But  it  does 
help  to  feel  some  one  appreciates  what  one's  trying  to  do.  I 
sometimes  feel  quite  useless:  so  that  it  would  be  better  to  go 
and  get  killed. " 

Mabel  Nugent  gave  him  a  long  look,  which  seemed  to  say 
that  she  felt  much  more  than  she  dared  to  express.  Then  she 
turned  and  gently  filled  his  glass.  Something  in  the  way  she 
did  it  made  it  an  act  of  supreme  tenderness,  almost  as  if  she  had 
stroked  his  hand.  She  rose.  Nigel  watched  her  as  she  moved 
towards  the  windows  to  see,  preparatory  to  retiring  to  bed, 
whether  they  were  shut.  It  struck  him  that  she  was  very  good- 
looking — of  course  she  always  had  been;  but  it  came  upon  him 
with  fresh  force,  the  charm  of  some  one  in  every  sense  a  woman. 
The  soft  rustle  of  her  silks,  her  admirably  dressed  head,  the 
swing  of  her  diamond  earrings,  the  flash  of  the  stones  on  her 
hand,  even  her  shiny  buckled  shoes,  all  pleased  him.  She  was 
finished,  complete,  independent.  Perhaps  she  laughed  too 
much;  her  voice  was  a  trifle  harsh;  but  one  could  not  imagine 
her  crying  or  clinging.  This  independence,  in  conjunction 
with  such  polished  elegance,  made  her  interest  and  sympathy 
a  subtle  form  of  homage. 

"I'm  going  to  bed  now,"  she  said,  pausing  by  his  chair  for 
a  moment,  her  fine  eyes  resting  on  his  face.  "You're  in  your 
own  room,  you  know.  Sleep  well!" 

With  that  she  left  him.  Nigel  leaned  back  in  his  deep  soft 
chair  and  drew  a  long  breath  of  comfort.  Comfort — Mabel 
Nugent  diffused  it  round  him:  comfort  in  its  deepest,  richest 
sense:  comfort  not  merely  physical,  but  of  his  whole  being. 
He  felt  at  ease  at  Tenacre,  as  he  never  felt  with  the  Leonards. 
Aurelia  in  one  way,  Daphne  in  another,  forced  upon  him  a  sense 
of  inadequacy;  and  when  he  was  with  them  he  had  moments 
in  which  they  seemed  to  be  right.  They  asked  of  him  some- 
thing, to  them  very  important,  which,  it  seemed,  he  had  not 
got.  But  was  it  really  important? 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  289 

The  incident  of  the  battlefield  article,  and  the  conversation 
out  of  which  it  arose,  was  a  case  in  point.  Nigel  had,  for  a 
moment,  admitted  Daphne's  accusation  that  he  did  not  feel 
the  war,  and  had  seen  it  as  constituting  a  true  case  against  him. 
He  had  seen  himself  with  her  eyes,  as  lacking  something,  and  a 
wave  of  depression  and  self -disgust  had  swept  over  him.  With 
an  effort  that  seemed  to  him  splendid  in  retrospect,  he  had  risen 
out  of  his  depression,  and  shown  her  that  she  was  wrong.  To 
himself  the  proof  was  convincing.  To  Mabel  Nugent  it  was 
more  than  convincing.  She  denied  the  whole  accusation  in 
advance.  But  Daphne?  To  Daphne,  by  some  incompre- 
hensible mental  perversion,  the  article  seemed  to  strengthen 
instead  of  annihilating  her  case.  Her  criticism  therefore  seemed 
to  him  to  throw  light  not  upon  himself,  or  upon  the  war,  but 
upon  her;  and  it  was  a  light  disquieting  in  the  highest  degree. 
It  showed  her  as  an  uncomfortable  person;  and  resentment  was 
added  to  the  sense  of  exhaustion  which  all  their  recent  inter- 
course had  forced  upon  Nigel.  He  had  hoped  so  much  from 
Mrs.  Leonard's  absence,  but  his  hopes  had  been  woefully 
disappointed. 

As  he  looked  back  over  the  last  few  months  it  seemed  to 
him  that  Daphne  had  changed.  His  previous  assumption 
that  she  had  remained  unaltered,  while  his  feeling  for  her  had 
suffered  modification  due  not  to  anything  in  her  but  to  some- 
thing in  himself,  now  seemed  false.  It  was  she  who  had  changed. 
He  had  thought  of  her  youth  and  her  passion  as  of  a  fire  which 
would  light  and  warm  their  life  together,  a  glow  which  would 
give  to  shared  emotion  the  radiance  apt  to  fade  when  one  was 
middle-aged;  but  it  had  turned  to  a  flame  malign  and  destruc- 
tive. A  fire,  after  all,  was  a  lovely  thing  in  a  well-tended  grate; 
one  did  not  want  it  all  over  one's  carpet.  Daphne  loved  him. 
Of  that  he  felt  no  doubt.  But  a  love  so  ardent,  consuming  and 
uncontrolled  as  hers,  was  really  a  source  of  more  misery  than 
pleasure.  She  did  not  now  seem  happy  herself,  and  assuredly 
it  was  long  since  she  had  made  him  happy. 

Without  rhyme  or  reason  there  came  into  his  head  the 
phrase  in  which  Hugh  Infield  had  congratulated  him  on  his 
engagement.  When  Nigel  had  communicated  the  news  he 


290  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

had  been  silent  for  some  time.  Then  he  had  said:  "You  are 
an  uncommonly  lucky  fellow.  I  hope  you  realise  it. " 

The  solemnity  of  his  tone  had  so  struck  Nigel  that  he  had 
jestingly  told  Hugh  that  he  almost  frightened  him.  On  that 
Hugh  had  looked  at  him  hard  and  declared — 

"That's  right.  You  ought  to  be  frightened.  She's  a  most 
remarkable  girl." 

When  Nigel  replied  that  she  was  a  very  charming  one,  which 
was  more  important,  Hugh  had  got  up  and  walked  about  the 
room.  Then,  approaching  his  friend's  chair,  he  had  stood  for 
some  minutes,  looking  monstrously  owl-like  and  solemn,  as  if 
on  the  point  of  delivering  some  piece  of  profound  wisdom. 
Nothing  had  come  of  it,  however;  he  had  returned  to  his  writing 
without  uttering  another  word.  It  was  odd  that  his  casual 
phrase  should  return  now.  Hugh  spoke  little:  that  must  be 
why  one  remembered,  with  such  unnecessary  vividness,  his  rare 
sayings.  This  seemed  to  belong  to  that  other  about  the  sacred 
terror,  which  had  latterly  haunted  Nigel's  brain.  Hang  it  all! 
whatever  he  meant,  he  was  not  far  wrong.  There  was  some- 
thing terrifying,  if  one  looked  forward  into  the  long  flat  days  of 
the  future,  in  the  idea  of  association  with  that  sort  of  consuming 
fire.  It  must  make  existence  uncomfortable,  at  the  least. 
It  was  the  perpetual  presentation  of  excessive  demands. 
Was  there  anything  so  wearing?  It  was  bad  enough  to  make 
demands  of  life  that  life  rejected.  One  got  used  to  that:  by 
thirty-eight  one  knew  all  about  that.  But  what  if,  when  one 
had  at  last  learned  to  accept  one's  own  limitations,  to  realise 
that  one  was  not,  for  good  or  evil,  a  person  to  whom  life  was 
going  to  grant  big  things,  some  one  else  insisted  that  one  was 
to  produce  them?  insisted  on  making  one  the  centre  and  the 
star?  What  did  that  mean  but  being  involved,  for  ever,  in  a 
struggle  one  had  rejected  for  oneself? 

Experience — Nigel  stretched  his  feet  out  to  the  still  excellent 
fire,  and  lighted  another  of  Edgar's  excellent  cigars — had  taught 
him  that  on  thrill  there  followed  reaction.  You  went  up,  only 
to  come  down.  After  a  time,  when  you  knew  this,  you  learned, 
if  you  were  wise,  to  dread  thrills.  As  he  stood  outside  the  Casa 
at  Montevarchi,  he  had  still  believed  that  the  big  continuous 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  291 

thrill  was  possible.  Aurelia  Leonard  had  thrilled  him  for  a 
week;  but  he  remembered  the  night  of  the  thunderstorm. 
Then  he  had  plunged  straight  from  the  crested  wave  into  the 
dragging  sand  of  the  recoil.  The  war  had  lifted  him  high  on 
a  new  wave  of  exaltation.  Who  felt  anything  now  but  sick 
ennui  of  it  all?  And  Daphne?  Oh,  with  Daphne  it  was  worse, 
because  while  he  had  descended  gradually  to  earth,  she  would 
not  let  him  walk  there  with  her  as  he  wanted.  She  still  held 
him  by  cords  to  her  balloon,  cords  that  dragged  incessantly, 
bruising  and  lacerating  his  flesh.  Yet  how  could  he  cut  them? 
She  was  young:  her  head  was  enveloped  in  the  gold  clouds  of 
illusion:  she  was  still  convinced  that  those  were  the  levels  on 
which  one's  soul  should  live.  For  Nigel  the  wax  had  melted 
from  the  wings  on  which  he  had  once  soared  towards  the  sun, 
and  he  did  not  want  them  on  again. 

No.  He  did  not  want  them  on  again.  It  was  not,  he  told 
himself,  that  he  was  incapable  of  flying;  rather  that  he  had 
learned  to  see  such  an  attitude,  however  long  sustained,  as  mis- 
taken and  undesirable.  It  was  the  aim  that  was  wrong,  not 
that  he  could  not  achieve  it.  About  that  he  was  clear,  Mabel 
Nugent  had  helped  him  to  be  so.  Self -depreciation  was  out  of 
place;  what  one  wanted  was  sanity  and  courage,  the  courage 
not  of  folly,  but  of  wisdom.  If  only  Daphne  could  see  it  too. 
If  she  could  come  down  to  earth  she  would  again  be  dear  and 
delightful:  as  she  was  not  now.  Nigel  moved  a  little  restlessly. 
Even  in  his  cosy  chair  and  gently  drowsing  state,  the  thought  of 
Daphne  acted  like  a  draught  of  outer  air,  chill  and  disturbing. 

He  dismissed  her  at  last  from  his  mind;  and  it  was  of  Mabel 
Nugent  that  he  thought  as  he  composed  himself  to  sleep.  He 
did  not  dream  of  her:  who  wanted  to  dream?  He  was  unaware 
of  having  dreamed  at  all.  Yet  when  he  awoke  he  found,  for 
no  explicable  reason,  his  mind  suddenly  occupied  with  Gervase 
O'Connor.  Gervase  stood  before  him,  and  insisted  on  remaining 
in  possession.  His  appearance  was  as  undesired  as  it  was 
strange.  Three  months  ago  Nigel  had  definitely  dismissed 
Gervase  from  his  mind.  He  was  worried  by  an  unreasonable 
sense  of  responsibility  towards  the  young  man,  which  had  made 
him  anxious  to  avoid  all  associations  connected  with  his  terrible 


292  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

end.  For  this  reason  he  had  been  glad  to  have  seen  nothing  of 
Myrtle  Toller,  although  subsequent  events  had  convinced  him 
that  as  far  as  she  was  concerned,  Hugh  had  been  right.  Myrtle's 
relation  to  Gervase  was  entirely  supposititious.  He  par- 
ticularly did  not  want  to  have  to  connect  Gervase  with  Tenacre. 
To  find  his  image  there  was  more  annoying  than  to  have  found 
it  in  the  Temple. 

In  spite  of  the  heavy  rain  that  blotted  all  view  from  the 
windows,  Nigel  sprang  up  to  shake  off  the  intruder  on  his 
thoughts. 

The  morning  was  pleasantly  spent  in  three-handed  bridge. 
Lunch,  however,  was  spoiled  by  the  fact  that  the  doctor,  a 
Scotchman  named  Anstruther  (a  Socialist,  but  not  a  bad  fellow 
all  the  same,  according  to  Edgar),  brought  with  him  a  young 
man  who  was  his  guest  for  the  week-end.  Edgar  had  met  them 
on  his  early  morning  tour  of  inspection  and  invited  them  both. 
A  glance  from  Mabel  indicated  to  Nigel  that  Edgar  was  always 
doing  these  things.  The  doctor  was  pleasant  enough,  and  as 
he  lived  at  their  gates  one  had  to  be  civil.  Sunday  lunch  every 
now  and  then  was  imposed  by  one's  own  sense  of  what  was  fitting. 
His  friends  were  another  matter:  there  Edgar  might  have  shown 
a  little  tact.  But  Edgar  was  hopeless.  The  friend  was  indeed  no 
other  than  the  would-be  questioner  of  the  night  before.  As 
Nigel  had  guessed,  he  was  a  junior  fellow  of  a  minor  Cam- 
bridge college;  and,  as  his  previous  behaviour  had  suggested, 
tiresome.  He  insisted  upon  talking  about  the  war,  and  his 
talk  was  aggressively  controversial.  He  was  not  content,  as 
any  reasonable  being  might,  on  Sunday,  have  been  expected 
to  be,  with  a  cursory  reference  to  the  contents  of  the  papers; 
which  amounted  to  little  beyond  confused  and  contradictory 
reports  of  German  and  Russian  victories  in  Poland.  Having 
expressed  a  profound  disbelief  in  and  scorn  of  the  Russian  Gov- 
ernment, generals,  armies,  motives  and  materiel,  he  suddenly 
turned 'on  Nigel  and  asked  him  to  define  the  objects  of  the 
war. 

"I  know,"  he  said,  "that  we  are  fighting  for  a  worthy 
purpose.  But  what  is  it?  " 

In  spite  of  Nigel's  weariness  of  the  question,  he  was  ulti- 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  293 

mately  compelled  to  enter  into  an  argument  with  the  young 
man  and  Dr.  Anstruther,  in  which  he  found  poor  allies  in  the 
Nugents;  this  prolonged  lunch  intolerably,  and  only  ended 
with  the  tardy  departure  of  the  guests. 

"What  a  bore  that  young  man  was,"  sighed  Mabel.  "  Nigel, 
I  apologise  for  him." 

"Yes,"  said  Edgar,  cheerily,  unconscious  of  his  guilt. 
"Not  a  bad  fellow,  but  one  does  want  a  rest  from  it  all  some- 
times. That's  the  worst  of  these  young  men.  They  have  no 
sense  of  proportion. " 

There  was  a  pause. 

"All  the  same, "  said  Nigel,  "it's  a  great  thing  to  be  young. " 
His  tone  had  a  hint  of  wistfulness,  which  Mrs.  Nugent's  quick 
ear  caught. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "They're  tiresome,  the  young, 
I  think.  All  over  the  place,  you  know.  That  youth  reminded 
me  of  Gervase  rather. " 

Nigel  gave  an  impatient  shrug.     Gervase  again. 

"Poor  Gervase!"  said  Edgar.     "What  a  pity  it  was!" 

Mrs.  Nugent  made  a  face. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  repeated.  "He  was  too  much  of  a 
good  thing  altogether,  Gervase.  I  don't  like  these  extremists. " 

"Ah,  you  mustn't  say  that  to  Nigel.  Miss  Leonard's  an 
extremist  if  ever  there  was  one." 

Nigel  looked  his  surprise.  Was  it  obvious,  then,  even  to 
Edgar?  He  was  glad  to  take  refuge  in  a  book  from  further 
conversation. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE 

THE  wish  to  see  ourselves  as  others  see  us  is  doubtless  an 
insincere  and  exaggerated  one,  never  maintained  by  any 
one  to  whom  a  glimpse  of  the  disagreeable  truth  in  its 
paralysing  whiteness  has  been  revealed;  but  to  see  ourselves 
as  we  see  others  is  more  useful  and  quite  possible.  Yet  few 
draw  from  the  relative  transparency  of  their  acquaintance  the 
correct  inference  of  their  own.  We  go  about  the  world,  imagin- 
ing that  we  present  a  blank  surface  behind  which  everything 
that  we  desire  to  hide  is  hidden;  ignoring  that  our  most  effective 
vizor  is  not  our  own  skill  to  conceal,  but  lack  of  interest  on  the 
part  of  our  friends  to  inspect.  Occupied  in  hiding,  we  do  not  see 
how  their  eyes  are  shrouded.  As  it  is,  to  any  of  them  not  sim- 
ilarly occupied,  the  very  fact  of  disguise  is  invitation  to  inquiry ; 
and  once  they  begin  to  look  there  is  a  great  deal  they  cannot 
but  see. 

As  Daphne's  distress  grew  upon  and  absorbed  her,  the 
people  among  whom  she  lived  retreated,  till  she  felt  herself 
alone  in  a  world  made  up  of  will-o'-the-wisp  thoughts.  It  did 
not  occur  to  her  that  Gertrude  Fenner  and  Chris  Bampton, 
whom  she  saw  every  day  at  breakfast  and  at  dinner,  with 
whom  she  more  often  than  not  passed  the  evening  behind  a 
newspaper  of  which  she  seldom  turned  the  pages,  noticed 
anything.  She  never  thought  of  them  except  as  figures  in  the 
background,  hardly  more  real  than  those  who  sat  opposite 
to  her  in  'bus  or  train,  or  at  the  marble-topped  table  of  the 
A  B  C  at  which  she  lunched.  They  seemed  exactly  what  they 
had  always  been,  and  she  supposed  that  she  did  too. 

They  were  the  same,  but  she  was  not;  and  the  fact  that  little 

294 


295 

ever  happened  to  Chris  and  Gertrude  personally,  that  they  had 
nothing  either  to  hide  or  to  show,  made  them  in  the  particular 
case  deeply  interested  in  a  person  to  whom  it  had  once  occurred 
to  them  that  something  was  happening.  Moreover,  while 
Daphne's  affairs  might  have  left  them  careless,  Nigel's  could  not. 
Nigel  was  the  centre  and  chief  ornament  of  the  set  in  which  they 
moved,  felt  by  all  as  a  possession  endeared  to  them  by  a  bache- 
lorhood that  was  delightful  almost  in  proportion  as  it  could 
not  be  felt  to  be  safe.  There  could  be  no  such  interest  in  Mal- 
lard Floss,  for  example,  who  obviously  would  never  marry,  as 
in  Nigel,  who,  it  had  always  been  clear,  one  day  inevitably 
would.  Nigel's  engagement  had  been  to  them  all  a  topic  of 
engrossing  interest.  The  war  had  driven  that  interest  back, 
but  the  war,  after  all,  was  every  one's  affair,  this  was  more 
special.  Old  interest  had  been  revived  and  a  keen  new  curi- 
osity awakened  by  the  postponement  of  his  marriage.  Thus 
when  Daphne  joined  the  Baker  Street  household  in  September, 
she  constituted  for  it  an  unfailing  fund  of  talk,  of  which  she  was 
wholly  unaware. 

Gertrude  Fenner  and  Chris  Bampton  had  shared  their  flat 
for  three  years.  The  third  partner  had  in  that  period  changed 
several  times.  Jane  Delahaye  had  lived  with  them  for  nearly 
two  years,  Myrtle  Toller  for  six  months;  but  they  went  on, 
and  would,  to  all  appearance,  go  on  for  ever.  They  were  ex- 
tremely modern,  both  of  them,  and  always,  intellectually,  mov- 
ing on;  but  this  movement  was  a  stable  characteristic,  that 
would  never,  it  seemed,  carry  them  into  any  permanent  or 
larger  mode  of  existence.  Keeping  up  with  things  exhausted 
their  energies.  They  received  the  impression  of  the  current  of 
ideas  so  constantly,  and  were  so  conscious  of  the  obligation  to 
do  so,  that  they  had  nothing  to  give.  In  themselves  they  were 
thus  the  abstract  and  brief  chronicle  of  the  time.  Half  an  hour's 
talk  with  them,  or  the  same  time  spent  in  examining  their  pos- 
sessions, would  at  any  time  have  indicated  for  an  alert  returned 
traveller  exactly  the  hour  which  the  London  clock  had  just 
struck.  Over  the  mantelpiece  of  their  white-distempered  little 
sitting-room,  all  angles  and  nooks,  there  hung  a  Slade  School 
essay  in  Post-Impressionism,  the  work  of  Myrtle's  now  enlisted 


296  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

friend.  On  one  side  was  pinned  a  map  of  the  Western  War 
area,  with  a  few  rather  drooping  flags.  They  had  followed  the 
campaign  through  the  first  six  or  seven  weeks,  but  ceased  in 
October.  On  the  other  side  stood  a  photograph  of  Godfrey 
Toller  in  khaki.  The  sofa  was  heaped  with  lemon  and  emerald 
cushions;  the  windows  hung  with  curtains  from  the  Omega 
work-rooms,  vivid  and  restless.  A  heap  of  newspapers  lay 
in  one  corner:  The  Times,  the  Daily  Mirror,  the  New  World, 
New  Numbers,  the  Common  Cause  and  Vogue.  Along  two  white 
shelves  was  ranged  a  motley  collection  of  books.  On  the  top 
shelf  two  or  three  volumes  of  the  Yellow  Book  made  a  vivid 
splash  of  colour,  heightened  by  juxtaposition  with  the  orange 
of  Bernhardi ;  beside  them  were  two  or  three  pale  green  volumes 
of  Bernard  Shaw;  an  odd  Galsworthy,  Sons  and  Lovers,  The 
Georgian  Book  of  Verse,  Varieties  of  Religious  Experience,  The 
Brothers  Karamazov,  Thais,  Chance,  The  Old  Wives1  Tale,  and 
a  row  of  blue  English  Reviews.  On  the  shelf  below  were  more 
novels,  all  quite  modern,  and  a  miscellaneous  collection  of 
small  shilling  books,  mostly  on  labour  questions:  The  Minority 
Report,  The  Great  Illusion,  Art  by  Clive  Bell,  Chats  on 
Costume,  Walks  Around  London,  and  the  Notebooks  of  Samuel 
Butler. 

"Daphne's  late."  Chris  Bampton  threw  down  the  evening 
paper  and  glanced  at  the  grandfather  clock  that  stood  in  one 
corner,  far  too  large  for  any  other  piece  of  furniture  in  the 
room. 

"Yes,"  said  Gertrude.  She  lay  back  on  the  sofa  with 
her  hat  still  on,  her  arms  extended  along  the  back,  her  eyes  half 
shut,  a  cigarette  between  her  lips.  "She  always  is  ...  I 
suppose  Nigel  walks  home  with  her?"  Her  tone  was  scornful. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Chris.  "Not  now.  He  left  that  off  long 
ago.  I  suppose  you  can't  keep  that  sort  of  thing  up,  if  you  have 
a  long  engagement. " 

Gertrude  stared  in  front  of  her. 

"Nigel  can't,  you  mean,"  she  corrected.     "Daphne  could." 

Chris  looked  interested. 

"Oh,"  said  Gertrude  sharply,  "you  know  what  we  always 
thought. " 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  297 

"Yes. "  Chris  got  up  and  lit  a  cigarette.  "That  is,  I  know 
you've  always  thought  it  a  mistake.  ...  I  confess  I  never 
quite  understood  why. " 

Gertrude  took  off  her  hat  and  examined  it.  The  velvet 
was  decidedly  shabby,  but  it  must  do  for  several  months  yet. 
Fortunately  the  days  would  be  dark  for  a  long  time  to  come. 
She  ran  a  pin  through  it,  carefully  choosing  a  hole  already 
marked. 

"Don't  you  like  Nigel?"  Chris  continued,  in  a  reflective 
tone.  They  had  been  over  the  ground  often  before,  but  that 
did  not  lessen  its  interest. 

"Like  him?  Yes,  I  like  him.  He's  charming  ...  far  too 
charming,  that's  just  the  difficulty.  Every  one  likes  him. 
Those  people  who  are  right  for  every  one,  can't  be  right  for  any 
one  who  is  very  much  an  individual.  Nigel's  like  Myrtle. 
They  would  have  suited  one  another  perfectly. " 

"They  didn't,  though." 

"I  know."  Gertrude  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "They 
were  too  much  alike,  I  suppose. " 

"Certainly  Daphne's  not  very  like  him,"  said  Chris,  medi- 
tatively. "Not  in  that  way;  lots  of  people  don't  find  her 
charming  at  all  ...  I'm  not  sure  that  I  do  myself." 

"No."  Gertrude  sat  up.  "Of  course  they  don't.  That's 
just  it." 

Chris  relit  her  cigarette,  which  had  gone  out,  and  adjusted 
her  eyeglasses.  Gertrude  went  on.  She  was  generally  rather 
silent;  but  when  she  did  begin,  she  was  apt  to  go  on  at  subjects 
longer  and  probe  them  more  deeply  than  most  people  liked  or 
thought  quite  kind. 

"Daphne  is  very  highly  individualised.  She's  like  her 
mother.  You  don't  like  Mrs.  Leonard  either,  I  know?  " 

"She  makes  me  uncomfortable." 

"So  she  does  Nigel.  .  .  .  Oh,  I've  seen  her  doing  it,  ever 
so  often." 

"She's  fascinating,  and  one  can't  keep  away,"  Chris  took 
it  up.  "But  I  feel  a  kind  of — well,  almost  alarm  when  I'm 
with  her.  I  don't  want,  always,  to  stay  at  that  height.  It 
tires  me  to  have  to  keep  my  mind  working  so  hard.  I  begin  to 


298  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

doubt  whether  I  really  have  any  mind  at  all.  And  that's  very 
disagreeable. " 

"  Yes.  That's  so, "  said  Gertrude.  "Ordinary  people  can't. 
But  Nigel  is  an  ordinary  person. " 

"I  like  ordinary  people  best,  then,"  said  Chris  stoutly. 

"Of  course,"  Gertrude  was  quite  serious,  "we  all  do.  .  .  . 
Oh,  I  know — 'you  have  been  an  angel,  Chris,  putting  up  with 
a  peculiar  one,  like  me;  but  you  couldn't  do  with  me  alone  for 
long.  Now,  Jane  was  a  lovely  pillow.  Dear  little  Jane!  I 
hope  she  finds  Lionel's  people  bearable.  It  must  be  atrocious 
to  go  and  live  with  your  husband's  people;  and  in  Wimbledon, 
of  all  places. " 

"Oh,  Jane  doesn't  mind  Wimbledon. " 

Gertrude  looked  doubtful.  It  apparently  seemed  to  her 
incredible  that  any  one  could  endure  Wimbledon. 

"I  suppose  she's  full  of  pride.  The  outside  of  the  envelopes 
will  keep  her  up.  Do  you  remember  how  she  used  to  practise 
writing  'Mrs.  Lionel  Delahaye'?  That's  where  we're  all  the 
same,  Chris — yes,  I  too — but  Daphne  Leonard  is  different. 
Envelopes  are  nothing  to  her,  really  nothing.  She  never  even 
thinks  of  them." 

Chris  was  not  shaken. 

"That  may  be,"  she  said.  "But  I  like  the  people  of  our 
sort  better.  Nigel  is  one  of  us,  certainly. "  She  paused,  and 
after  meditating  in  silence  for  a  minute  or  two,  looked  up  and 
asked,  "Do  you  think  Daphne  sees  that  Nigel  is  an  ordinary 
person?" 

Gertrude  had  got  up  and  now  stood  staring  at  the  picture 
over  the  mantelpiece. 

"That's  just  the  question,"  she  said.  "Not  yet,  I  think. 
But  one  day  she's  bound  to  find  it  out.  I  can't  think  how  she's 
been  so  long  about  it.  You'd  have  thought  it  was  impossible 
to  go  on  reading  the  New  World  every  week  and  imagine  him 
anything  else.  I  expect  she's  shed  such  a  halo  round  him  that 
it  blinds  her. " 

"But  where,"  asked  Chris,  "does  she  get  the  halo?  It  does 
not  fit  Nigel,  nor  improve  him  a  bit.  He's  much  nicer  as 
he  is." 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  299 

"Much."  Gertrude  admitted  it.  "But  then  Daphne's 
in  love  with  him. " 

"I  see,"  said  Chris. 

"Oh,  no."  Gertrude  had  suddenly  turned  round  on  her. 
"You  don't.  She's  not  in  love  with  him  as  Jane  is  with  her 
man,  or  Enid  Freen  with  Jack.  It's  not  that  easy  sort  of 
affair  with  Daphne.  Being  in  love,  with  a  girl  like  Daphne,  is 
something  tremendous.  It's  an  all-or-nothing  business.  You 
can't  feel  what  Daphne  feels  and  admit  that  your  hero  is  just 
an  ordinary,  delightful,  rather  insincere  but  quite  charming  little 
man.  .  .  .  Have  you  ever  asked  her  what  Nigel's  faults  are?" 

"No." 

"Well,  I  have.  She  couldn't  name  anything  he  hadn't  got, 
but  there  were  things  he  had  in  excess.  He  was  too  sensitive, 
too  fine,  too  good  for  this  rough  world,  altogether  wonderful. 
Now,  Nigel  isn't  in  the  least  wonderful,  and  some  day  she  must 
find  him  out. " 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  cried  Chris,  rather  indig- 
nantly, "when  you  talk  of  finding  Nigel  out.  There's  nothing  to 
find.  He  is  really  nice,  infinitely  the  nicest  person  in  our  set. 
If  it  were  Hugh  Infield  now,  I  can  imagine  finding  out  all  kinds 
of  things.  But  Nigel  is  just  what  he  seems. " 

Gertrude  looked  at  her  friend  thoughtfully.  Chris  had 
taken  off  her  eyeglasses  and  was  rubbing  them  on  her  hand- 
kerchief as  she  stood  with  one  foot  on  the  fender.  Without 
her  glasses  Chris  might  have  been  called  pretty,  but  they  ac- 
centuated all  the  bad  points  of  her  face — its  excessive  breadth 
and  the  want  of  finish  of  nose  and  eyebrow — while  detracting 
from  the  one  good  one,  her  large  pale  eyes.  Her  prettiness  was 
of  the  insignificant  type  that  needed  help :  glasses  destroyed  it. 
Gertrude,  though  not  in  the  least  pretty — too  short,  too  thin, 
too  pointed  and  angular — was  interesting.  Women  generally 
felt  sorry  for  Gertrude  because  of  her  hungry,  unsatisfied  ex- 
pression; men  thought  she  looked  bad-tempered. 

"He  is  just  what  he  seems:  yes,"  said  Gertrude.  "But  not 
what  he  seems  to  Daphne. " 

"I  see,"  said  Chris.  But  the  difference  seemed  to  her  a 
fuss  about  nothing. 


300  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

"Myrtle's  coming  to  dinner,  isn't  she?"  said  Gertrude  after 
a  pause. 

Chris  nodded. 

"  I  hope  she's  got  out  of  black. "  Gertrude's  tone  was  sharp. 
"It  looks  so  gloomy.  It's  bad  enough  to  have  all  the  people 
who  are  entitled  to  it,  without  any  more.  .  .  .  Did  you  ever 
know  that  Myrtle  cared  two  pins  for  Jimmy?" 

Chris  hesitated.     "  I've  hardly  seen  her  since. " 

"Oh,  I  know  you  won't  admit  anything  against  her. "  Ger- 
trude smiled.  "I'm  sure  there  was  nothing  in  it.  I  suppose 
it  makes  up  for  not  having  a  young  man  at  the  front. " 

At  the  sound  of  an  opening  door  Chris  moved  off  to  the  hall, 
and  Gertrude  following  her,  they  found  Daphne  Leonard  and 
Myrtle  Toller,  shining  with  the  wet  that  dripped  off  their  oil- 
skins and  umbrellas. 

Myrtle  was  herself  again;  bright,  efficient  and  normal. 
She  had  discarded  her  black  clothes,  and  with  them  the  silent 
gloom  they  demanded. 

"Couldn't  stand  Cambridge  another  minute,"  she  said, 
greeting  her  friends  with  unusual  affection.  "All  the  agedest 
dons  are  drilling.  Yes,  father  too.  He  revels  in  what  he  calls 
the  'discipline' — as  if  there  were  any  in  his  corps.  After  all, 
one  does  get  sick  of  soldiers:  in  Cambridge  you'll  hardly  see 
any  one  else.  London  is  quite  refreshing.  I  had  lunch  with 
Nigel."  She  smiled  down  at  Daphne,  who  was  busy  wiping 
her  wet  skirt  with  a  duster.  "He  was  just  back  from  Tenacre, 
and  as  delightful  as  ever.  It's  a  comfort  there  are  a  few  people 
who  are  not  in  camp.  I  suppose  the  New  World  is  too  impor- 
tant for  Nigel  to  go  out?  " 

Daphne  looked  up. 

"Didn't  you  ask  him?"  she  said.  It  seemed  improbable 
that  there  was  any  question  to  which  Myrtle  wanted  an  answer 
which  she  would  not  put.  She  had  never  admitted  that  there 
were  any  things  one  could  not  talk  about.  Myrtle  laughed 
cheerfully,  as  she  took  off  her  hat — they  were  now  in  Daphne's 
minute  bedroom — and  combed  out  her  hair  before  the  glass, 
while  Daphne,  sitting  on  the  bed,  was  taking  off  her  damp 
shoes. 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  301 

"Oh,  yes.  I  asked  him.  He  said  he  was  too  old.  I  don't 
see  anything  in  that.  He's  only  one  year  over  age.  He  could 
go  out  with  his  car,  anyhow.  I  should  make  him  go  if  I  were 
you,  Daphne.  But  I  suppose  you  don't  feel  like  that?" 

"Why  not?" 

"Oh,  well,  I  thought  you  shared  Mrs.  Leonard's  views." 

"Nigel  doesn't."  Daphne's  head  was  hidden  under  the 
curtain  of  her  hanging-place,  in  the  bottom  of  which  she  searched 
for  slippers.  Myrtle  laughed. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  Nigel's  views  are  what  anybody  likes  to 
make  them.  You  surely  realise  that?" 

Daphne,  for  only  answer,  proffered  two  pairs  of  shoes, 
between  which  Myrtle  might  make  her  choice.  They  passed 
back  into  the  sitting-room,  where  Chris  and  Gertrude  awaited 
them.  Myrtle  took  up  a  position  before  the  fire,  holding  out 
first  one  foot  and  then  the  other  to  the  blaze. 

"My  dears!  I  quite  forgot. "  She  suddenly  turned  round. 
"I  hope  you  won't  mind — Herbert  turned  up  this  afternoon,  and 
as  this  evening  seemed  the  only  time  I  had,  I  asked  him  to  come 
along.  He  ought  to  be  here  by  now.  He's  got  three  days' 
leave.  ...  I'm  sorry  to  inflict  him  on  you,  he's  dreadfully 
dull;  but  I  couldn't  face  an  evening  with  him  by  myself.  We 
might  go  on  to  something  after  supper,  if  you  find  him  too 
bad." 

The  others,  none  of  whom  had  ever  met  Herbert  Toller,  were 
full  of  inquiries  as  to  what  he  was  in  and  where  he  had  been, 
to  none  of  which  Myrtle  was  able  to  produce  much  by  way  of 
reply.  Obviously  in  her  mind  there  was  still  a  confusion  be- 
tween the  contempt  which  the  whole  Toller  family  had  pre- 
viously entertained  for  a  brother  with  no  head,  only  a  soldier, 
and  the  new  attitude  of  reverence  for  everything  in  khaki. 
Little  had  been  gleaned  when  Herbert  himself  appeared. 

Captain  Toller  was  tall,  brown-faced  and  rather  good-look- 
ing. He  showed  no  sign  of  embarrassment  at  being  one  male 
in  a  company  of  four  ladies,  three  quite  unknown.  Lack  of 
embarrassment  was  a  Toller  characteristic,  but  in  Herbert  it 
seemed  to  be  part  of  a  real  simplicity.  He  was  simple,  slangy 
and  quite  unself conscious :  a  big  schoolboy,  with  a  certain 


302  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

blunt  charm.  He  knew  his  own  worth,  and  set  it  neither 
high  nor  low. 

The  girls  plied  him  with  all  kinds  of  questions.  His  answers 
were  brief  and  businesslike.  He  dismissed  some  of  the  stories 
they  instanced  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders. 

"Don't  you  believe  all  the  yarns  that  are  brought  over," 
he  said.  "The  Germans  are  first-rate  soldiers,  and  you'll  not 
find  a  man  who's  fought  against  them  who  doesn't  say  the 
same.  About  killing  prisoners  I  don't  know.  War  is  war: 
some  of  the  correspondents  seem  to  forget  that."  He  looked 
round  at  them  with  a  pleasant  smile. 

"You  don't  hate  them,  the  Germans?"  Daphne  asked. 

"Good  Lord,  no!"  he  laughed  out.  "Leave  that  to  the 
people  at  home. " 

"Daphne's  a  pacifist,  you  know,  Herbert,"  his  sister 
threw  in. 

Herbert  looked  at  her  again. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  don't  think  she's  so  far  wrong.  Pity 
there  weren't  more  of  them,  that's  all." 

The  others  shouted. 

"But,  Herbert,"  cried  Myrtle,  apparently  struck  by  a 
strange  suspicion.  "You  think  we  ought  to  have  gone  to 
war,  don't  you?  I  mean,  Germany's  got,  somehow,  to  be 
crushed. " 

"Oh,  rather!"  her  brother  agreed.  "I'm  all  for  crushing 
Germany,  only  it's  a  tough  nut." 

Chris  Bampton  was  not  quite  satisfied. 

"You  think  we're  in  the  right,  anyhow?  It's  a  just 
war?" 

Herbert  lit  a  cigarette.  They  were  sitting  round  the  fire  in 
the  drawing-room  now. 

"Well,"  he  smiled,  "I'm  an  Englishman,  you  know,  and 
perhaps  not  quite  unbiased.  .  .  .  It's  as  just  as  any  war, 
I  dare  say. " 

"But  what  about  Belgium?"  cried  Myrtle. 

A  frown  crossed  the  soldier's  face. 

"Good  Lord,  Myrtle,  don't  talk  father's  cant  at  me.  Bel- 
gium had  jolly  little  to  do  with  it  at  the  beginning.  It's  got 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  303 

everything  to  do  with  it  now,  I  admit,  but  that's  another 
matter. " 

Daphne  was  staring  at  him,  her  eyes  wide  and  round:  they 
grew  rounder  as  he  went  on. 

"We  should  have  been  in  it  just  the  same  without  Bel- 
gium. I  am  not  saying  we  ought  not  to  be  in  it. "  He  glanced 
at  his  sister.  "There  don't  seem  to  me  to  be  any  oughts  in 
the  matter.  Only  I  don't  see  any  sense  in  sentimentalising 
that's  all." 

"Surely,"  exclaimed  Gertrude,  "if  you  read  the  White 
Paper  ..." 

Herbert  looked  kindly  at  her. 

"White  Papers  are  beyond  me,"  he  said.  "The  diplo- 
matists trying  to  tidy  up  the  mess  they've  made — that  doesn't 
interest  me  much. " 

"Well,  if  you  had  read  it,"  Gertrude  went  on  undaunted, 
"you'd  see  that  England  really  did  try  to  avoid  war." 

She  talked  on  quickly  and  cleverly,  looking  at  him  from 
time  to  time,  as  if  she  wondered  whether  he  could  really  take 
it  in.  When  she  had  finished,  Herbert  Toller  leaned  back  in 
his  chair. 

"I'm  stupid,  you  know,"  he  said,  glancing  at  his  sister. 
"I'm  sure  Myrtle's  told  you  that.  What  you  say  is  quite 
correct,  I  have  no  doubt.  But  you  see  all  that  seems  to 
me  rather  like  shutting  the  stable  door  very  neatly  after  the 
horse  has  bolted.  As  I  see  it,  we've  been  getting  more  and  more 
annoyed  with  Germany:  cheeky  little  boy  looking  over  the 
wall:  and  kept  letting  them  see  it  was  our  wall.  They  saw  a 
chance  to  hit  out  and  took  it.  That's  all  I  see  in  it. " 

"Then  they  began  it — you  admit  that?"  cried  Gertrude. 

"Oh,  yes.  They  began  it.  But  as  to  Belgium,  after  all 
we  always  knew  they'd  come  through  if  they  could,  and  they 
have.  They'd  have  got  to  Paris  too,  if  Von  Kluck  hadn't 
made  a  twenty-four  hours'  miscalculation.  That  dash  was 
their  one  chance  of  winning,  and  they  knew  it;  but  at  the 
eleventh  hour  they  missed  it.  Because  there  aren't  any 
Napoleons  around,  I  suppose.  Anyhow,  we're  in  for  a  long 
job  now:  Lord  knows  how  long." 


304  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

"That's  it,  they  chose  their  moment.  They  were  ready 
and  the  French  weren't, "  Chris  took  it  up. 

"More  shame  to  them,"  Herbert  remarked  drily. 

A  sudden  ring  at  the  bell  caused  Chris  and  Gertrude  to 
look  at  one  another  in  some  surprise. 

"I  expect  it's  Nigel,"  said  Myrtle  calmly.  "I  suggested 
his  coming  in." 

Gertrude  glanced  at  Daphne,  and  then  from  her  to  Chris 
as  the  latter  moved  to  the  door.  Daphne  had  coloured  and 
made  a  quick  movement  of  surprise.  It  was  plain  to  them 
both  that  she  had  not  expected  Nigel.  Her  colour  might  have 
been  merely  surprise,  followed  by  pleasure.  But  her  expression 
did  not  suggest  pleasure.  There  was  something  almost  appre- 
hensive in  the  glance  she  cast  at  the  door  as  Chris  closed  it 
behind  her.  It  was  Wednesday.  Since  Saturday  she  had 
not  seen  Nigel,  nor  had  she  written  to  him;  or  rather,  strictly 
speaking,  she  had  written,  but  not  posted  the  letter.  Her  first 
intimation  of  his  being  in  town  again  had  come  from  Myrtle's 
remark  that  they  had  lunched  together.  She  had  thought  of 
him  incessantly,  but  her  thoughts  had  been  vague,  and  painful 
in  their  vagueness.  As  he  came  in  now,  she  looked  up  in  the 
absurd  expectation  of  seeing  him  somehow 'altered.  Her  mind 
had  shown  him  to  her  as  he  had  appeared  on  Saturday.  That 
had  not  seemed  the  real  Nigel.  She  hoped  now  that  the  cloud 
of  strangeness  might  have  vanished,  proving  to  have  been  a 
mere  subjective  illusion  of  her  own.  But  no.  He  looked 
exactly  the  same  as  on  Saturday.  He  bent  on  her  the  same 
blithe,  friendly  smile  that  he  gave  to  all  the  others.  Perhaps 
he  held  her  hand  a  thought  longer.  She  was  not  sure;  but 
his  eyes  met  hers  only  for  the  fraction  of  a  second  and  she 
could  read  in  them  nothing.  He  was  remote,  as  he  had  been 
on  Saturday.  How  could  you  greet  some  one  you  loved  in 
that  distant  way,  with  no  shade  of  special  interest?  There 
was  no  need  for  concealment:  there  had  been  no  concealment 
before.  Every  one  in  the  room  knew  they  were  engaged. 
Chris,  Gertrude  and  Myrtle  were  intimates  of  both.  Suddenly 
she  thought,  "It  is  incredible  that  he  loves  me."  This  idea 
darted  across  her  mind,  not  as  a  reproach;  it  brought,  at  the 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  305 

moment,  no  pang;  it  was  merely  a  logical  inference  from  his 
manner.  Her  mind  registered  it  mechanically,  and  there  it  lay. 

Nigel's  entrance  caused  a  kind  of  bustle.  Everybody 
got  up,  and  a  re-arrangement  of  seats,  to  allow  of  an  exten- 
sion of  the  semicircle  round  the  fire,  followed.  Finally  Daphne, 
on  her  low  stool  at  one  corner,  had  Gertrude  just  opposite 
to  her  on  the  corresponding  stool,  with  Herbert  Toller  and 
Nigel  side  by  side,  next  to  her.  Myrtle,  at  Nigel's  elbow, 
and  then  Chris,  completed  the  group. 

Nigel  began  to  ask  questions  in  his  turn,  questions  that 
showed  much  more  precise  and  up-to-date  knowledge  than 
those  of  the  others.  The  conversation  soon  developed 
into  a  series  of  stories.  Herbert's  manner  of  recounting 
was  dry  and  unsentimental.  He  spoke  of  "expensive" 
actions  with  professional  callousness.  The  rare  touches 
of  colour  were  only  extracted  by  Nigel's  ingenious  ques- 
tions. Nigel  was  clever  in  framing  questions,  in  drawing 
the  reticent  Captain  out.  He  seemed  much  more  curious 
to  elicit  than  Herbert  to  impart  information;  and  when  it 
came  it  was  singularly  unpictorial.  War  as  it  emerged 
from  his  laconic  utterances  was  a  dreary  routine  of  contin- 
uous discomfort.  Yet  his  matter-of-factness  gradually 
conveyed  to  his  listeners  an  impression  of  something  more 
grim  than  they  had  gathered  from  any  decorated  tale  of 
horror. 

"Is  it  true,"  said  Nigel,  "that  the  Germans  shoot  their 
own  men  from  behind?" 

Herbert  shrugged  his  heavy  shoulders. 

"Do  that  in  any  army,"  he  said.  "Very  infectious  thing, 
funk." 

"But  our  men  don't  want  to  run  away,  do  they?" 

"Lord,  yes.  Every  one  wants  to  run  away.  If  enough 
of  them  want  it  at  once,  nothing  can  keep  them  back.  Don't 
get  any  idea]  into  your  head  that  the  Germans  aren't  brave. 
They're  damnably  brave." 

Nigel  sat  thoughtful  for  a  moment. 

"It's  all  rather  a  splendid  answer  to  the  people  who 
thought  that  our  civilisation,  had  bred  out  the  virile  quali- 


306  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

ties  of  the  race,  isn't  it?"  He  expanded  this  idea  at  some 
length. 

"Hugh  would  say  we  never  had  been  civilised,"  said  Daphne, 
as  a  silence  followed. 

Captain  Toller  looked  at  her. 

"No,"  he  said  shortly.  "We  haven't.  And  this  won't 
help." 

Nigel  protested  against  the  wrong  and  limited  view  of 
civilisation  implied  in  such  a  view. 

"Killing  does  nobody  any  good,"  said  the  Captain, 
who  seemed  incapable  of  taking  up  a  general  idea.  "If  you 
don't  mind  it,  so  much  the  worse  for  you.  If  you  do, 
in  the  end  it  does  for  you.  You  lose  your  nerve." 

"You  won't  be  able  to  go  home,  Herbert!"  Myrtle  laughed. 
"Father  would  be  furious  with  you." 

"Oh,  father!  he's  busy  seeing  the  moral  of  it  all,  I  sup- 
pose. It's  all  working  for  good  in  some  wonderful  way.  He 
might  as  well  be  a  bishop." 

"You've  been  too  near  it,  you  know,"  said  Nigel  lightly. 
"After  all,  I  believe  one  has  a  better  sense  of  proportion  at 
home." 

Captain  Toller  was  evidently  slightly  irritated.  He  got 
up  and  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire. 

"Twenty  kilometres  of  corpses,  burning  like  dead 
leaves,  does  rather  put  one  out  of  focus,  I  dare  say,"  he 
said. 

There  was  a  silence. 

"Anyhow,"  said  Myrtle,  "we've  got  to  go  on." 

"Yes,  we've  got  to  go  on."  Captain  Toller  took  out  his 
watch.  "So  have  we."  He  looked  at  his  sister. 

Myrtle  got  up  gracefully.  Chris  Bampton  followed  her 
out  of  the  room.  Gertrude  Fenner  was  talking  to  Captain 
Toller.  Nigel  and  Daphne  were  left  standing  side  by 
side. 

"Well,"  said  Nigel  lightly.     "Better?" 

Daphne  bit  her  lip. 

"Oh,  come,"  said  he.  "How  seriously  you  take  every- 
thing. Don't  you?" 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  307 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  meet  his,  and  for  a  moment  they 
looked  at  one  another.  Nigel's,  if  as  clear,  were  as  impene- 
trable as  glass.  His  tone  had  been  light;  but  now  as  she  looked 
at  him  he  wrinkled  his  brow  and  his  voice  was  almost  sharp 
as  he  went  on — 

"You  aren't  still  making  a  mountain  out  of  that  mole- 
hill, are  you?" 

Before  she  could  say  anything  Myrtle  had  returned, 
and  Nigel  said  he  would  walk  with  them  as  far  as  Baker  Street 
station.  The  three  girls  stood  by  the  fire,  listening  to 
the  clank  of  Captain  Toller's  spurs  on  the  stone  stairs. 

"Not  a  bit  like  Myrtle,  is  he?"  said  Chris,  straightening 
her  eyeglasses,  and  pushing  aside  an  invisible  hair  that  tickled 
her.  Gertrude  ran  her  hand  through  her  own  dark  locks, 
making  her  untidy  head  a  little  more  untidy. 

"No,"  she  said.  "Queer  views  for  a  soldier,  hasn't 
he?" 

"I  liked  him,"  said  Daphne. 

"Yes."    Gertrude  looked  at  her.    "So  did  I." 

"He  was  rather  brutal,  wasn't  he?"  said  Chris. 

"The  truth  generally  is,"  Gertrude  retorted. 

Daphne  stared  into  the  wild  mosaic  over  the  mantel- 
piece. She  continued  to  stare  at  it,  while  the  others 
moved  about,  straightening  the  furniture;  and  still  stared 
when  Chris  went  out,  to  bed,  and  Gertrude  sat  down  at  her 
table  to  write  her  diary.  Scraps  of  the  evening's  talk 
came  back  to  her,  mixing  in  with  the  criss-cross  of  her 
thoughts,  seeming,  strangely,  to  belong  to  the  problem 
before  her  mind.  Why  was  it,  for  instance,  that  what 
Herbert  Toller  had  said  about  the  war  seemed  real  and  true, 
and,  for  all  its  cruelty,  bearable,  when  what  Nigel  had 
said  seemed  unreal,  untrue,  unbearable?  Nigel  thought 
the  war  was  good:  more  good  than  bad.  As  Herbert 
Toller  described  it,  it  was  certainly  bad.  Her  mother 
thought  it  bad  in  itself,  in  some  deeper  sense,  into  which 
Daphne  had  not  yet  penetrated.  It  did  not  matter 
what  Herbert  Toller  thought;  yet,  when  he  spoke,  her 
mind  accepted  him.  It  was  all  important,  what  Nigel 


308  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

thought,  yet  her  mind  had  risen  up  against  him.  He  had 
been  unreal.  His  article  had  been  unreal.  Most  unreal 
of  all  was  the  idea  that  he  loved  her.  She  could  not 
understand.  It  was  incredible  that  he  loved  her:  in- 
credible that  he  could  really  see  the  war  as  good.  And 
yet  he  said  the  war  was  good.  He  said  he  loved  her. 

Daphne  felt  a  sick  pain  surging  up  within  her.  She 
pressed  her  hands  against  the  sharp  edge  of  the  mantelpiece. 
In  her  mind  all  was  darkness.  She  was  physically  tired. 
She  had  walked  all  the  way  from  the  workroom,  trying 
to  think.  But  she  had  not  thought.  She  had  been 
too  tired  to  think;  and  outside  the  station  she  had  met 
Myrtle.  She  was  too  tired  to  think  now.  A  weight 
of  accumulated  days  of  weariness  lay  heavy  on  her,  and  not 
of  bodily  weariness  only.  What  was  worse  was  the 
sense  of  moral  dejection  and  confusion.  That  was  the 
reason  why  she  had  been  unable  to  write,  on  Sunday,  to  her 
mother;  why  her  previous  letters  had  been  so  unreal. 
Their  intimacy  had  been  broken.  Not  because  Mrs. 
Leonard  was  away.  That  did  not  matter.  Months  of 
separation  before  had  made  no  difference  at  all.  It 
was  broken  because  Daphne  was  holding  something  back. 
She  knew  it,  though  she  did  not  know  what  it  was.  She 
shrank  from  self-examination,  but  she  knew  that  she  was 
unhappy  and  hiding,  in  her  unhappiness,  from  her  mother, 
whose  eyes  would  see  it  all.  She  was  glad  that  Mrs.  Leonard 
was  away. 

All  was  quiet  now  in  the  building,  so  quiet  that  the  rain- 
drops on  the  leads  of  the  balcony  made  a  distinct  sound; 
and  the  scratch,  scratch  of  Gertrude's  pen  was  loud. 
Daphne  looked  at  Gertrude  and  wondered  what  she  was 
writing. 

"Do  you  put  your  thoughts  in  your  diary,  or  only  events?" 
she  said  at  last. 

"Oh,  nothing  ever  happens  to  me,"  said  Gertrude,  look- 
ing up  for  a  moment,  pen  in  hand.  Daphne  found  no  reply, 
and  Gertrude  returned  to  her  writing.  Daphne  continued 
to  look  at  her,  and  as  she  looked  a  new  train  of  thought  awoke. 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  309 

Gertrude  closed  her  book  and  came  and  knelt  by  the  fire. 
The  red  embers  still  glowed  with  heat,  and  she  held  out  her 
hands  to  them. 

"I  think  a  fire  would  be  the  most  satisfactory  thing  in 
the  world  to  be,"  she  said,  after  a  long  silence.  "It 
gives  and  gives  until  there's  nothing  left  of  it,  and  then  it's 
done." 

Daphne  looked  down  at  the  dark  tousled  head,  sur- 
prised by  words  which  seemed  directly  to  continue  her  own 
thoughts. 

"You  do  think  to  give  is  more  blessed  than  to  receive?" 
she  said  slowly. 

Gertrude  looked  up. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said  quickly.  "It's  humiliating.  Don't 
you  think  so?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Daphne,  still  looking  down. 

"I  can't  imagine  your  doing  it — you're  too  strong  and 
proud,"  Gertrude  went  on. 

"But  surely,"  Daphne  broke  in,  "giving  is  a  more 
positive  act  than  receiving,  there's  ever  so  much  more 
life  and  energy  in  it.  It's  much  harder  to  take,  I 
think." 

Gertrude  got  up. 

"You  can  do  like  me,"  she  said,  "and  give  to  some  one 
from  whom  you  expect  nothing.  Or  to  an  impersonal  thing 
like  your  country.  Or,  best  of  all,  to  some  one  who's  dead. 
But  don't  try  giving  to  a  real  live  person.  .  .  .  They'll  turn 
and  rend  you  in  the  end." 

Daphne  was  staring  into  the  embers. 

"Or  run  away?"  she  said  after  a  long  pause. 

"Yes."   Gertrude   took  it  up   quickly.      "Or  run  away." 

Daphne  drew  herself  up  very  straight.  Her  mouth  was  set 
in  a  firm  line. 

"No,"  she  said. 

Gertrude  glanced  at  her,  as  if  for  further  explanation; 
but  Daphne  only  shook  her  head,  and  saying  Good-night, 
left  the  room.  Gertrude  looked  after  her;  she  had  thought 
Daphne  would  kiss  her,  and  was  disappointed. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR 

THE  rain  which  set  in  on  the  Saturday  and  following 
days  that  Nigel  Strode  spent  at  Tenacre  continued  as 
if  it  could  never  stop,  as  if  the  skies  above  were  weep- 
ing over  the  folly  and  madness  and  agony  of  men.  Day  after 
day  the  water  poured  down  from  a  sunless  sky.  The  last 
leaves  dropped  sadly  from  the  trees  and  lay  rotting  on  the 
ground;  the  grass  withered  and  turned  to  mud.  London  be- 
came a  city  of  darkness.  All  November  it  rained,  and  in 
December  it  was  still  raining. 

Unobservant  foreigners,  seeing  only  the  surface,  de- 
scribed London  as  unchanged,  and  declared  that  England 
was  not  feeling  the  war;  everything  was  going  on  just  the 
same.  There  was  no  distress;  every  one  was  busy  in  the  old 
way.  Busy  indeed  they  were,  for  the  country  had  become 
one  vast  arsenal  of  war,  turning  out  human  and  mechan- 
ical instruments  of  destruction  without  pause  or  rest.  For 
six  days  and  sometimes  seven,  pale  men  and  women 
in  factories  and  workshops  toiled  incessantly  at  the  man- 
ufacture of  shells,  guns,  swords,  uniforms,  boots.  On 
Sunday  people  went  to  church  and  prayed  to  God  to 
grant  peace  in  their  time,  and  returned  on  Monday  to  the 
work  of  war. 

There  were  still  those  who  cried,  as  Nigel  himself  had 
cried  in  August,  that  life  had  never  been  so  interesting  be- 
fore, never  so  real.  Incessant  activity  made  thought 
unnecessary:  war  news  supplied  a  daily  false  stimulus 
to  dull  imaginations:  the  passion  of  hatred  gave  an  en- 
ergy to  sterile  emotions.  To  thousands  war  was  still 

310 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  311 

a  great  external  pageant,  absorbing  as  no  cinemato- 
graph or  theatre  had  ever  been.  But  others,  and  their 
numbers  grew  every  day,  went  about  with  a  dumb  prayer 
behind  their  closed  lips — a  prayer  for  an  end  of  the 
slow  agony  of  unendurable  dread,  of  the  nameless  things 
happening  behind  those  lines  on  which  "no  change"  was 
reported  day  after  day.  Young  men  who  had  left  their  pre- 
vious occupations,  filled  sometimes  with  the  joy  of  sac- 
rifice, sometimes  with  the  mere  enthusiasm  of  change, 
set  their  teeth  as  they  realised,  if  their  elders  did  not, 
that  they  were  going  out  to  no  high  adventure,  but  into  the 
mouth  of  a  dark  monster,  which  might  perhaps,  at  best,  gorged 
with  the  youth  of  a  continent,  lie  down  to  sleep  again  for 
another  quarter  of  a  century.  Life  went  on  at  home,  as  the 
foreigners  saw  it,  because  life  must  go  on.  Each  day 
brought  its  work,  and  the  small  daily  vexations  and 
satisfactions,  of  which  people  still  talked  and  thought, 
because  to  live  by  little  things  from  hour  to  hour  is 
the  law  of  human  existence;  eating  and  sleeping,  marry- 
ing and  giving  in  marriage,  did  not  cease.  Children  were 
born  into  a  world  more  full  of  weeping  than  they  could  under- 
stand. 

One  of  these  children  was  born  to  little  Jane  Dela- 
haye;  and  on  Sunday,  a  week  after  its  birth,  Daphne 
Leonard  made  her  way  out  to  Wimbledon  to  see  Jane, 
who  had  been  living  there  since  August  with  her  husband's 
people.  She  had  been  surprised  and  rather  touched 
that  Jane  wanted  her,  and  felt  a  sort  of  self-reproach 
in  the  realisation  of  how  little  she  had  thought  of  Jane 
lately,  and  what  it  meant  to  her  that  Lionel  was  out  in  Flan- 
ders in  the  stinking  trenches.  Jane  Delahaye  had  never 
been  regarded  by  any  of  the  set  to  which  she  belonged 
as  an  interesting  individual.  She  was  a  dear  little  thing, 
just  the  person  you  would  like  to  have  to  look  after 
you  if  you  happened  to  be  ill — with  a  cooing  voice, 
and  soft,  small  hands  that  would  smooth  a  pillow  de- 
lightfully; but  not  the  person  to  whom  you  wanted 
much  to  talk  or  who  could  conceivably  have  anything 


312  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

to  tell  you.  There  always  had  seemed  something  rather 
contradictory  in  Jane's  earning  her  living  and  knocking 
about  London  at  odd  hours.  She  did  not  even  look  the  part. 
She  was  just  such  a  pretty,  roundabout  little  creature — 
and  to  be  quite  candid,  such  an  empty-headed  one — 
as  would  have  seemed  more  in  place  in  a  tennis-playing 
home  at  Baling  or  Richmond.  Her  work — she  taught 
singing  and  morris-dancing  at  various  schools — was  purely 
perfunctory.  She  would  obviously  marry.  Daphne, 
who,  when  she  left  Newnham,  had  been  quite  sure  that 
she  herself  was  not  going  to  marry,  at  any  rate  not 
before  thirty,  had  known  Jane  only  as  engaged,  and 
as  the  friend  of  Gertrude  Fenner  and  Chris  Bampton, 
with  whom  she  had  been  living.  But  she  had  been 
drawn  to  Jane  by  her  frank,  absorbed  happiness.  It 
was  perhaps  strange  that  any  one  could  see  Lionel  Dela- 
haye,  a  robust  young  Oxford  don,  as  authenticating  the  good- 
ness of  God;  but  Jane  had  seen  it,  and  that  threw  over 
her,  for  Daphne,  a  kind  of  glory.  She  was  not  cool 
and  business-like,  as  so  many  people  who  get  engaged 
were  apt  to  be:  she  was  carried  away.  The  difficult  and 
rather  sordid  circumstances  of  her  marriage,  the  struggle 
with  her  aunts  about  Lionel's  religious  perversities,  had 
dimmed  nothing  of  this  radiance;  and  Daphne,  staying 
then  with  her  in  the  old  house  down  at  Bristol,  had  found 
it  more  possible  to  tell  Jane  of  her  deepest  feelings  about  Nigel 
than  any  one  else  in  the  world,  even  her  mother.  And 
when  in  June  she  had  again  to  go  down  to  Bristol  to 
persuade  the  aunts  to  receive  Jane  and  her  two  months' 
husband,  she  had  succeeded  because  her  understanding 
of  Jane's  feelings,  born  of  her  own,  had  enabled  her  to 
get  the  gentle  old  ladies  to  see  that  Lionel's  atheism 
could  never  shake  their  niece's  faith,  and  that  there  was 
a  religion  as  genuine  as  their  own  that  had  nothing 
to  do  with  kneeling  in  church  and  taking  part  in  the 
Communion.  "Jane  is  so  happy,  do  let  her  happiness 
be  perfect,"  she  had  begged  them;  and  they  had  given 
way.  Daphne  only  stayed  to  see  Lionel  and  Jane  arrive, 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  313 

and  to  hear  Jane  whisper  the  incredible  news  that  she  hoped, 
soon  after  Christmas,  that  their  happiness  was  to  be  crowned 
by  the  birth  of  a  child. 

Then  the  war  had  come.  Lionel,  a  brilliant  classic  with 
a  power  of  inspiring  his  pupils  that  gave  him  a  real 
future  as  a  teacher,  had  applied  at  once  for  a  commission. 
He  loathed  the  war  so  intensely  that  he  felt  he  must 
help  to  end  it.  His  extreme  intelligence  and  his  efficiency 
with  a  gun  and  on  horseback  had  defeated  his  friends'  hopes 
for  him  of  so  long  a  period  of  training  that  he  might  never 
see  service.  By  mid-November  he  was  at  the  front,  and  his 
departure  had  brought  his  little  daughter  into  the  world  two 
months  before  her  time. 

Daphne  knew  very  little  about  babies;  but  the  tiny 
scrap  that  Jane,  looking  very  small  herself  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  great  brass  bed  in  the  huge  Wimbledon  bedroom, 
was  holding  to  her  breast,  seemed  to  her  terrifyingly 
fragile  and  wan.  Jane  smiled  up  at  her  as  she  came 
in  and  sat  down  beside  her,  and  Jane's  little  triangular 
face  was  lit  by  a  radiance  that  almost  brought  the  tears 
to  Daphne's  eyes.  She  could  only  hold  her  hand  and 
murmur  something  inarticulate.  The  room  was  very 
hot  and  very  ugly;  full  of  vast  shining  furniture,  with 
a  wall-paper  that  ran  up  and  down  in  restless  pink  and 
green  stripes.  Photogravures  of  pictures  by  Maud  Good- 
man, in  magnificent  gold  frames,  hung  out,  crooked, 
on  long  cords.  On  the  table  by  Jane's  bed  were  three 
exquisite  pink  roses  in  a  glass,  their  colour  killed  by 
the  old  rose  of  the  curtains,  and  a  photograph  of  Lionel 
in  a  round  silver  frame;  beside  it  a  little  packet  of 
letters. 

"She's  very  like  Lionel,  don't  you  think?"  said  Jane, 
uncovering  the  little  puckered  face.  "I'm  going  to 
call  her  Leonora.  We  decided  that  before  he  went 
out." 

"I  hope  you're  pleased  it's  a  girl,"  said  Daphne. 

"Oh,  yes.  Lionel  always  wanted  a  girl.  A  girl  can't  fight, 
you  see." 


314  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

Daphne  found  it  difficult  to  think  of  anything  to  say. 
It  was  always  difficult  to  her,  and  lately  the  difficulty  seemed 
to  have  grown. 

"Don't  you  envy  me?"  said  Jane,  with  a  wonderful  smile, 
as  she  looked  down  at  the  tiny  scarlet  head — Leo- 
nora's head  was,  at  present,  the  colour  of  marmalade. 
"You  know  at  first  I  thought  I  couldn't  bear  it  to 
happen  when  Lionel  was  away,  but  he  would  have  minded 
so  dreadfully — I  had  quite  a  bad  time,  and  I  am  such  a  cow- 
ard I  simply  howled — and  now  he'll  come  back  and  we  shall 
be  so  happy  together.  .  .  .  And  meantime  she's  sort  of  hold- 
ing the  hole  he  makes,  beautifully  closed.  .  .  .  When  I've  got 
her,  I've  got  him." 

Jane  prattled  on  and  Daphne  listened,  murmuring 
assent  from  time  to  time.  Jane  would  not  have  agreed  with 
Gertrude — she  never  had;  she  felt  that  to  give  was  more 
blessed  than  to  receive,  evidently.  And  was  she  not 
right?  It  was  harder,  but  that  only  made  it  more  beau- 
tiful. Why  could  she  not  do  the  same?  Giving  was 
life.  She  could  give  to  Nigel,  and  that  was  what  mat- 
tered; not  what  he  gave  her.  To  be  allowed  to  give  was  the 
great  thing. 

Very  softly  she  kissed  the  little  red  head.  A  nurse  came 
in  and  removed  the  baby  to  its  cot,  lifting  it  with  a  care  that 
to  Daphne  was  almost  ominous. 

"May  she  stay  and  have  tea  with  me?"  Jane  asked. 

The  nurse  inspected  Daphne. 

"Oh,  she's  a  splendid  person  for  me,"  Jane  cried.  "So 
soothing." 

The  nurse  seemed  satisfied. 

"You  are,  you  know,"  said  Jane,  as  Daphne's  eyes  had 
opened.  "I  feel  you're  strong  .  .  .  like  Lionel.  There's 
something  deep  in  you  both — like  a  full  well.  The  water 
on  the  top  looks  like  any  other,  but  you  can  go  down,  down 
and  never  come  to  the  bottom.  That's  so  restful.  That's 
what  I  don't  find  in  any  of  the  other  people.  Myrtle, 
you  know,  she's  all  froth,  and  Chris.  .  .  .  And  men  are  worse 
as  a  rule." 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  315 

"Shallower,  do  you  mean?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Do  you  know,  I  used  to  think  Mr.  Strode 
was — you  don't  mind  my  saying  this?  But  I  only  do  it  be- 
cause I  was  wrong.  .  .  .  Since  he's  got  engaged  to  you 
I  see  he's  different.  .  .  .  When  are  you  going  to  be 
married?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Daphne,  looking  out  of  the  win- 
dow. It  was  nearly  dark,  and  the  rain  fell  steadily  on  to  the 
sodden  garden.  "Not  for  a  long  time,  I  expect.  Not  till 
after  the  war.  .  .  .  It's  pouring  again." 

"Oh,  how  I  hate  the  rain,"  cried  Jane.  "Think  of  it  in 
France.  Lion  says  his  men  were  up  to  their  knees  last 
week;  it  must  be  worse  now.  .  .  .  It's  lucky  for  you  in  a 
way  that  Nigel  hasn't  got  to  go." 

Daphne  nodded.  "Only  sometimes,"  she  said,  thought- 
fully, "I  think  it  would  be  almost  better  to  feel  it  all 
personally.  .  .  .  Feeling  the  whole  thing  about  every 
one  is  somehow  so  futile — and  one's  getting  off  too  eas- 
ily, too,  in  a  way.  Do  you  understand  what  I  mean, 
Jane?" 

Jane  nodded. 

"I  understand  all  sorts  of  things  now  that  I  didn't 
before,"  she  said.  "I  used  not  to  understand  anything, 
you  know.  .  .  .  Would  you  have  gone  if  you'd  been  a 
man?" 

Daphne  met  her  eyes.     She  nodded. 

"I  couldn't  have  stayed,"  she  said.  "It  would  have  been 
sentimentalism  in  me."  Jane  looked  puzzled.  "But  I  should 
have  gone.  I  couldn't  have  stayed." 

"That's  what  Lion  felt.  He  hates  it,  you  know,  a&  yottL 
mother  does — he'  admires  her  so  terrifically,  you  know  that? 
But  he  couldn't  let  other  people  go  for  him.  How  is  Mrs 
Leonard?" 

Daphne  again  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"She's  away,  you  know.  In  the  country,"  she  said 
vaguely.  "I  don't  know  .  .  .  I'm  afraid  she's  very  un- 
happy. .  .  I  must  go,  Jane,  dear.  I  don't  want  to  tire 
you." 


316  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

She  stood  up  by  the  bed,  looking  down  at  Jane,  who,  very 
pale,  smiled  up  at  her. 

"Dear  Daphne!"  she  murmured.  "I  wish  you  were  happy 
too." 

"Oh,"  said  Daphne,  "but  I  am.  .  .  ."  She  under- 
stood all  the  implications  of  Jane's  short  sentence,  but  dared 
not  meet  them.  And  Jane's  eyes,  filled  with  their  strange 
new  light,  seemed  to  penetrate  behind  her  words  to  the  blank 
and  futile  wretchedness  she  hid  behind — a  wretched- 
ness that  seemed  the  more  intolerable  for  its  smallness. 
She  bent  down,  and  Jane  put  her  arms  round  her  neck  and 
kissed  her.  Daphne  returned  the  kiss,  and  lifting  Jane's 
hands  to  hers,  pressed  her  face  to  them  to  hide  the 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Come  again  soon,  dear,"  said  Jane.  "I  shall  tell  Lion 
about  you,  and  how  nice  it's  been.  I  write  such  silly  letters, 
it  will  be  good  to  have  something  to  put  in." 

Daphne  ran  quickly  downstairs,  and  was  making  her  way 
to  the  door  when  the  nurse  came  out  of  the  room  to  the  left 
and  called  her  in. 

"Miss  Leonard,"  she  said.  "May  I  speak  to  you  for 
a  moment?"  She  held  a  piece  of  pale,  fluttering  paper  in 
her  hand.  "Mrs.  Delahaye  is  an  old  lady.  I  can't  tell  her — 
I  don't  know  what  to  do.  .  .  .  This  has  just  come.  .  .  . 
Captain  Delahaye  was  killed  two  days  ago." 

Daphne  read  the  words,  but  they  swam  before  her 
eyes.  She  looked  at  the  nurse.  The  nurse  looked  at 
her;  but  nothing  came  to  either  of  them.  Old  Mrs. 
Delahaye  adored  her  son — the  blow  would  almost  kill 
her;  but  it  was  not  of  her  that  either  was  thinking,  but  of 
Jane. 

"She's  been  worrying  because  she's  had  no  letters,"  the 
nurse  went  on.  "And  the  doctor  says  she's  to  be  kept  quite 
quiet." 

Daphne  held  the  telegram  in  her  hand. 

"You'd  better  consult  him,  I  should  think,"  she  said. 

"And  the  baby's  so  small,"  the  nurse  went  on;  "a  seven 
months'  child,  you  see.  Anything  that  upsets  the  mother 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  317 

might '  She  did  not  finish,  but  it  was  all  too  clear. 

Daphne  stared  at  the  dining-room  tablecloth,  tracing 
its  rich  design,  brown  and  red  stamped  velvet,  with 
intense  absorption.  A  sudden  gust  of  wind  sent  a  puff 
of  black  smoke  out  from  the  dull  fire.  Following  it 
with  her  eyes,  she  stared  at  the  grey  marble  mantel- 
piece with  its  heavy  clock  and  bronze  statuettes,  and  then 
at  the  picture  hanging  above.  It  was  a  fine  painting, 
beautiful  even  against  the  lincrusta  walls,  and  above 
the  hideous  ornaments — full  of  air  and  light:  a  portrait  of  a 
boy  of  twelve  or  thirteen  standing,  in  flannels,  his  back 
against  a  smooth-stemmed  tree.  His  fresh  cheeks  glowed 
with  health,  a  colour  lost  in  manhood;  but  the  candid 
grey  eyes  were  unaltered,  and  through  them  the  soul 
of  Lionel  Delahaye  looked  out,  simple,  genuine,  lovable: 
ordinary  human  nature  at  its  best.  Daphne  bit  her  lips  and 
turned  away.  She  guessed  what  that  picture  must  say  for 
ever  to  the  two  women  whose  life  existed  in  Lionel's.  She 
turned  to  the  nurse  and  explained  that  if  the  doctor  thought 
Jane  should  be  told,  and  that  she  could  do  it  better  than  old 
Mrs.  Delahaye  she  was  ready. 

"I'm  no  good  at  telling  things"  .  .  .  She  hesitated. 

"But  you  wouldn't  break  down,  miss.  .  .  .  The  old  lady 
would,  I  know,  and  she'll  talk  about  the  will  of  God,  and 
that'd  upset  Mrs.  Lionel  more  than  anything." 

"No,  I  shouldn't  talk  about  that.  .  .  .  Well,  you'll 
tell  me  if  you  want  me.  I'm  on  the  telephone,  Paddington 

7799-" 

The  nurse  would  have  liked  her  to  stay.  She  longed  to 
turn  over  and  discuss  the  horror  in  all  its  aspects.  Beyond 
the  mere  human,  it  had  for  her  a  kind  of  awful  professional 
interest,  both  in  itself  and  in  its  possible  reactions;  and  with 
Daphne's  departure  that  discussion  must  be  cut  off. 
But  Daphne,  stunned  and  terrified,  wanted  only  to 
escape.  She  would  do  anything  that  was  asked  of  her, 
it  was  not  from  that  she  fled — but  clearly  there  was 
at  the  moment,  until  the  doctor  had  been  consulted,  nothing 
to  do. 


318  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

"Jane  doesn't  see  the  papers,  does  she?" 

The  nurse  shook  her  head.  Mrs.  Delahaye  was  not 
allowed  to  read  at  all.  Sometimes  she  asked  what  the 
news  was,  but  not  often,  and  then  was  only  given  a 
summary. 

The  rain  was  now  streaming  down,  and  the  house  was 
some  way  from  the  station — a  very  dark  and  muddy 
way.  Daphne  splashed  in  and  out  of  puddles,  careless 
of  the  condition  of  her  shoes,  careless  of  anything,  conscious 
only  of  the  cruelty  of  life.  From  some  distance  off, 
the  sound  of  church  bells  came  towards  her,  ringing 
for  evening  service.  As  she  turned  out  of  the  lane  and 
emerged  on  to  the  Ridgway,  she  saw  a  company  of  khaki- 
clad  men  on  the  road  ahead  of  her,  going,  no  doubt, 
in  the  direction  of  the  bells.  She  paused  to  adjust  her  hat- 
pins, for  the  wind  was  tearing  her  hat  away,  and  also 
to  let  them  get  well  ahead  of  her.  As  she  watched,  a  kind 
of  passion  of  resistance  swept  over  her.  Men,  thou- 
sands, even  millions  of  them,  were  being  drilled  all  over 
Europe  and  sent  out,  when  drilled  enough,  to  suffer 
atrociously,  to  die  or  lose  the  health  that  made  life 
bearable,  to  kill  and  maim  and  torture  other  men,  who, 
like  them,  accepted  as  a  duty  what  they  loathed  so  far  as 
they  thought  at  all — the  best  of  them  loathing  it  most.  That 
was  patriotism.  And  the  Church,  which  told  them  to  love 
their  enemies  and  bless  them  that  hated  them,  urged  them 
on  to  kill  and  to  be  killed.  That  was  faith.  And  the  women 
who  loved  them,  to  whom  their  life  meant  everything,  sat 
at  home  and  bore  it,  and  no  one  dared  to  say  it  was  a  hideous 
blasphemy  which  made  the  name  of  God  a  mock.  In- 
stead, they  covered  all  the  truths  over  with  sentimen- 
talities, and  pretended  that  nations  were  purified  and 
exalted  by  the  delivery  of  their  best  to  death  or  bru- 
talisation.  Were  they  not  the  real  enemies,  the  people  who 
talked  like  that? 

The  train  into  which  Daphne  got,  for  it  was  waiting  in 
the  station,  was  crowded  with  yawning  and  irritable  Sun- 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  319 

day  passengers  who  had  apparently  all  sat  in  it  for  some  time. 
Their  dripping  umbrellas  and  wet  boots  and  mackin- 
toshes gave  off  a  disagreeable  smell,  and  the  carriage 
was  hot  and  glaring.  To  Daphne  the  whole  thing  was 
like  a  nightmare.  The  ugly  people,  the  heat,  the  smelj,  the 
glare  all  seemed  the  proper  physical  counterparts  of  the  ter- 
rible pain  and  confusion  of  her  mind.  This  confusion 
was  hateful  and  unnatural  to  her;  but  it  was  all  round  her, 
a  jungle,  through  which  Lionel's  death  did  not  cleave 
a  way,  though  it  lit  it  up  hideously,  and  showed  it  to 
her  for  what  it  was.  Lionel's  death  was  war:  what  war  meant, 
brought  home  to  one  in  the  single  instance  which  alone  the 
human  mind,  it  seemed,  could  feel.  As  she  looked  at  it,  and 
saw  it,  that  death,  Daphne  knew  that  she  had  not  fully  felt 
the  war  before.  She  had  felt  all  kinds  of  things,  but 
not  the  war.  She  had  thought  she  felt  it — when  she 
sat  on  the  Embankment  and  heard  the  little  girl  call- 
ing for  her  father;  when  she  listened  to  Herbert  Toller, 
and  took  in,  as  his  candour  compelled  her  to  take  in, 
some  of  the  raw  details  of  what  men  suffered  and  had 
to  see  others  suffer,  every  day;  but  it  was  not  these 
things  that  made  her  heart  ache  so  that  she  could  press 
her  hand  against  it  as  against  a  stone.  No.  What 
she  had  actually  felt  was  her  own  futile  distress,  a  dis- 
tress which,  though  obscurely  connected  with  and  inter- 
wound  in  the  war,  still  sprang  not  from  it,  but  from 
Nigel.  What  had  lain  upon  her  heart  all  these  days,  all  these 
weeks,  was  the  cloud — was  it  only  a  cloud,  not  something 
much  more  solid? — between  her  and  Nigel.  But  now  as  she 
thought  of  Jane  and  her  baby,  the  war  broke  in  upon  her  in 
its  naked  truth. 

It  smote  through  her  as  she  sat,  staring  at  the  ugly  people. 
This  was  what  was  happening  everywhere,  this  rending  pain, 
final  and  appalling;  while  she  was  engrossed  in  her  own  trivial 
pain.  That  she  could  have  been  so  blinded  was  awful. 
What  did  it  mean?  What  kind  of  love  was  it  that 
made  one  blind  to  other  people,  while  staring  for  ever 
at  oneself?  She  had  told  herself  that  to  give  was  more 


320  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

blessed  than  to  receive.  So,  in  spite  of  Gertrude,  in 
spite  of  her  own  doubts,  it  was:  when  you  gave  like  Jane, 
and  gave  to  Lionel. 

The  train  started,  and  jarred  and  jangled  on  its  way. 
It  stopped  at  a  station.  More  wet  people  got  in.  Then 
suddenly,  without  any  warning,  as  they  left  the  platform 
all  the  glaring  lights  went  out.  The  ugly,  restless  people 
disappeared,  and  in  the  darkness  the  windows  showed, 
instead  of  vacuous  reflected  faces,  the  cold  steel  blue 
of  the  sky;  below  it  the  opaque  black  of  the  houses  and  the 
fields  beyond.  Then,  as  the  train  swung  over  the  bridge, 
the  river,  starred  with  tiny  points  of  light  along  its 
banks,  spread  out;  a  mute  reminder  of  the  enduring 
calm  on  the  surface  of  which  humanity  buzzed  and 
agonised. 

"How  awful!"  cried  a  woman  next  Daphne.  "They 
really  ought  to  warn  one!"  She  gave  a  shrill  giggle. 
But  Daphne  hardly  heard.  On  her  jangled  nerves  the 
darkness  had  descended  like  a  healing  hand.  There  came 
into  her  mind  a  line  of  which  her  mother  was  very  fond:  "Nous 
ne  possedons  e'ternellement  que  ce  que  nous  avons  perdu." 
Was  that  what  made  Jane's  giving  beautiful,  her  pain 
beautiful  too,  that  she  possessed  for  ever  him  whom  she  had 
lost? 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE 

AN  invitation  to  spend  Christmas  at  Tenacre  afforded 
Nigel  the  good  excuse  he  wanted   for  refusing   Mrs. 
Leonard's  suggestion  that  he  and  Daphne  should  go 
down  to  Wending  End. 

"You  look  tired,  Nigel,"  said  Mrs.  Nugent;  "Mrs.  Leonard 
will  make  you  more  tired." 

Nigel  did  not  rebut  the  suggestion;  and  Mrs.  Nugent,  en- 
couraged by  his  silence  (which  marked,  she  felt,  a 'stage:  she 
dared  not  have  expressed  her  idea  so  frankly  two  months  back), 
pursued  her  advantage. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  ask  Daphne  too?" 

Nigel  inspected  the  catalogue  he  held  in  his  hand,  trying  to 
find  any  connection  between  the  description  set  down  for  No. 
37  "a  portrait"  and  the  curious  arrangement  of  mathematical 
figures  which  made  up  the  canvas  on  the  wall  before  him. 

As  he  did  not  reply,  Mrs.  Nugent  went  on — she  was  making 
no  pretence  of  any  interest  in  the  pictures.  It  was  a  War 
Relief  Exhibition,  and,  having  paid  her  shilling  at  the  door,  she 
felt  that  she  had  done  all  that  was  needed.  No  one  talked 
about  pictures  nowadays. 

"I  think,  you  know,  in  a  long  engagement  it's  a  mistake  for 
people  to  see  too  much  of  each  other.  ...  I'll  ask  her,  of 
course,  if  you  like;  but  I  think  it  would  be  better,  for  you,  not 
to  do  so.  ...  I  feel  tired  myself,  and  Daphne  is — well,  very 
intense. " 

Nigel  looked  up.  Mabel  Nugent's  bright  eyes  were  bent 
upon  him,  but  there  was  no  criticism  in  her  gaze  or  in  her  ready 
smile.  She  was  entirely  sympathetic. 

321 


322  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  think  you'd  better 
sound  her." 

"I  see,"  said  Mrs.  Nugent;  but  what  she  saw  would  have 
been  difficult  to  put  into  words.  "Of  course,"  she  went  on 
boldly,  " I'd  much  rather  have  you  to  myself .  .  .  .  Edgar  finds 
Daphne  rather — well,  rather  difficile." 

Nigel  merely  nodded. 

"Edgar  doesn't  like  heights,  you  know,"  she  went  on. 

Nigel  was  still  apparently  pondering  over  No.  37. 

"And  you  do  want  a  thorough  rest." 

Nigel  sighed. 

"I  am  tired,"  he  said,  with  an  access  of  self-pity,  "though 
I  don't  really  know  why." 

Mrs.  Nugent's  eyes  rested  on  him  tenderly. 

"You  feel  things  too  much,"  she  said.  "Let's  sit  down  on 
that  settee.  ...  I  don't  think  these  pictures  are  up  to  much, 
do  you?  The  fact  is  one  gets  thoroughly  fed  up  with  Belgians. 
We  can  see  them  quite  well  enough  from  there  .  .  .  they 
seem  quite  unintelligible. " 

Nigel  followed  her  and  sank  down  by  her  side  on  the  soft 
velvet.  The  gallery  was  nearly  empty;  only  a  bearded  gentle- 
man who  went  round  inspecting  everything  with  the  most 
minute  interest  by  the  aid  of  a  large  magnifying  glass,  and  in 
the  further  room  a  young  man  in  khaki,  who  paid  no  attention  to 
anything  but  the  girl  in  furs  who  accompanied  him.  Mrs. 
Nugent  adjusted  her  magnificent  sables  and  looked  at  Nigel. 
He  leaned  back,  long  and  slim,  his  fair  head  very  fair  against 
the  dark  velvet  (he  had  taken  off  his  hat,  which  lay  on  the  seat 
beside  him),  and  stared  with  eyes  half  closed  at  the  variegated 
,wall  in  front  of  them. 

"You  know,"  said  Mrs.  Nugent  suddenly,  "it  was  a  mis- 
take, putting  off  your  marriage." 

A  slight  frown  contracted  Nigel's  smooth  brow,  his 
eyes  opened  wide.  He  made  no  other  movement,  how- 
ever. 

"A  great  mistake,"  Mrs.  Nugent  reiterated.  "There's 
nothing  so  wearing  as  being  engaged.  .  .  .  When  you're 
married  you  settle  down." 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  323 

"Sometimes,"  Nigel  threw  in.  "I  can't  imagine  Daphne 
'settling  down, '  as  you  call  it.  Can  you? " 

Mrs.  Nugent  looked  at  him. 

"I  see  two  grey  hairs,"  she  said  irrelevantly.  Nigel  sat 
up  and  felt  his  head. 

"Only  two?"  he  said.     "I  expect  there's  a  forest." 

"No.  Only  two.  .  .  .  The  others  will  come  fast  enough, 
once  they  begin.  Those  two  are  quite  new,  aren't  they? 
They've  come  since  your  .  .  .  since  the  war.  .  .  .  No;  I 
can't  imagine  Daphne  settling  down — but  you'll  have  a  calm- 
ing effect,  I  dare  say. " 

"I  don't  at  present,"  he  said  rather  sharply.  Mrs.  Nugent 
smiled.  She  could  smile  safely,  for  Nigel  was  looking  away. 
For  a  moment  her  smile  lingered.  Then  she  resumed — 

"I  mean  what  I  say,  though.  You  ought  to  get  married — 
if  you're  going  to  marry  at  all. " 

"So  you  said."    Nigel's  tone  showed  irritation. 

"I  can't  see  what  you're  waiting  for.  .  .  .  The  war's  not 
going  to  be  over  at  any  rate  before  the  autumn. " 

"It's  much  more  likely  to  go  on  for  years. " 

"Exactly.  That's  just  it.  ...  You  see,  you  can't  realise 
how  it's  affecting  you,  dear  Nigel.  .  .  .  One  gets  used  to  one- 
self and  doesn't  see  changes — they  come  so  gradually." 

He  turned  his  head. 

"Do  you  mean  I'm  changed?" 

"Changing.    Yes." 

Nigel  was  sitting  up  now.  Evidently  his  interest  was 
aroused. 

"Don't  smile  in  that  irritating  way,  Mabel,  but  tell  me." 

Mabel,  however,  continued  to  smile.  "I'm  not  sure  that 
I  dare,"  she  murmured. 

But  Nigel  insisted. 

"Well,"  she  said  at  last,  as  if  the  admission  were  being 
dragged  from  her,  "you're  worried." 

"You  said  that  before. " 

"Well,  it's  true.  You're  older.  You're  losing  your 
charm " 

She  faced  him  with  it,  and  Nigel  did  not  smile.     He  stared 


324  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

at  the  cocoanut  matting  on  the  ground,  his  hands  deep  in  his 
pockets. 

"And  you  think,"  he  said  at  last,  "that  I  might  recover  if 
I  married?" 

"I'm  sure  that  this  long  strain  is  bad  for  you,"  was  her 
reply. 

Nigel  felt  annoyed.  Mrs.  Nugent,  though  on  very  different 
grounds,  was  echoing  what  Hugh  had  said  weeks  ago.  He  had 
suddenly  appeared  one  evening  early  in  December,  having 
mysteriously  returned  from  France,  and  being  on  his  way  back 
thither  within  two  hours ;  and  instead  of  giving  Nigel  the  colour 
and  detail  that  would  have  been  so  useful,  he  had  wasted  the 
short  half-hour  they  had  together  in  persistently  talking  of 
Daphne  and  Mrs.  Leonard.  The  upshot  of  his  talk  was  an 
appeal  to  Nigel  not  to  what  he  called  "fail"  the  latter.  Hugh's 
emphasis  seemed  to  be  all  on  Mrs.  Leonard.  Translated  into 
action,  it  amounted  to  advice  to  marry  early  in  the  New  Year, 
because  the  present  strain  was  wearing  every  one  out.  Nigel 
had  taken  the  advice  in  good  part,  but  somewhere  deep  down 
he  resented  it.  What  business  was  it  of  Hugh's,  anyhow? 
Hugh  knew  nothing  about  these  things,  he  had  never  had  an 
emotional  experience  in  his  life. 

Mrs.  Nugent's  line  was  certainly  quite  different — she 
thought,  at  least,  of  him,  and  not  of  other  people;  but  her 
argument  was  almost  more  disquieting,  though  it  was  not  one 
he  could  meet  without  appearing  an  ass.  Not  being  able  to 
meet  it,  he  felt  no  further  desire  to  talk  to  her,  and  looking  at 
his  watch  invented  an  engagement. 

"You'll  come  to  Tenacre  for  Christmas  without  fail,  then, 
won't  you?"  she  said,  as  he  shook  hands. 

"I  will,  without  fail, "  he  bowed. 

"Ah!"  she  cried,  "I  was  wrong  about  your  charm!  .  .  . 
And  Daphne?" 

He  paused,  on  the  point  of  departure. 

"You'd  better  ask  her  yourself,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Nugent  smiled  and  waved  her  hand.  "All  right.  Ill 
ask  her  to  tea — say  on  Wednesday;  you  might  come  in,  later 
on." 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  325 

One  couldn't,  Mrs.  Nugent  felt,  very  well  have  an  evening 
party  in  war  time,  in  December  it  might  seem  unfeeling  to  be 
amusing  oneself  to  that  extent:  but  a  tea  was  allowable. 
There  was  something  much  more  subdued  about  afternoon  en- 
gagements. She  was  therefore  At  Home  on  the  third  Wednes- 
day of  December  from  four  to  seven  instead  of  from  nine  to 
eleven,  and  a  surprising  number  of  her  acquaintances  found 
themselves  free  to  be  amused  to  that  extent.  The  room  was 
droning  with  conversation  and  dark  with  feathered  hats  when 
Daphne  arrived  late  and  full  of  the  intention  of  departing 
early.  She  saw  Mr.  Mottershaw  in  earnest  conversation  in  one 
corner  with  an  enormously  stout  lady  whom  he  was  recom- 
mending to  lie  on  the  sofa  for  an  hour  a  day  at  least,  and  free 
her  body  of  sensations  and  her  mind  of  thoughts:  it  was  only 
when  one  was  in  a  state  of  complete  passivity  that  one  could 
receive — what,  Daphne  did  not  gather.  Mallard  Floss,  in 
a  uniform  very  much  like  that  of  a  South-Western  Railway  por- 
ter, was  the  centre  of  an  animated  group  listening  eagerly  to 
his  views  on  the  paralysing  of  approaching  Zeppelins.  In 
the  window  she  saw  Enid  Freen,  and  began  moving  in  that 
direction  when  her  hostess  suddenly  bore  down  upon  her.  Mrs. 
Nugent  was  all  eager  affability.  While  she  gave  Daphne  tea 
she  talked  incessantly,  mainly  about  herself,  how  impos- 
sibly busy  she  had  been,  how  she  had  given  up  society  and 
never  saw  any  one  except  occasionally  when  she  snatched  a  week- 
end at  Tenacre.  The  war  was  too  dreadful,  wasn't  it,  going  on 
all  the  time?  It  had  quite  broken  up  their  set,  she  never  saw 
any  of  them  now  except,  of  course,  Nigel. 

Daphne  did  not  look  up  at  the  mention  of  Nigel's  name, 
though  she  knew  that  she  was  expected  to  do  so.  She  could  not 
have  talked  about  him  with  Mrs.  Nugent  at  any  time,  least  of 
all  now.  As  it  was,  she  felt  Mabel's  restless,  inquisitive  eyes 
piercing  her  like  gimlets,  and  was  glad  to  avoid  them  by  glancing 
round  the  room.  It  was  so  much  like  many  other  rooms  in 
Chelsea  and  Kensington  in  which  she  had  from  time  to  time 
gone  to  tea,  in  her  best  gloves  and  shoes,  that  it  was  difficult 
to  be  interested  in  it.  There  must  be  hundreds  of  highly 
cultivated  houses  like  this  in  London.  You  entered  a  narrow 


326  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

white  hall,  sparely  hung  with  Japanese  prints  or  Durer  en- 
gravings, with  a  narrow  oak  settee  and  a  Japanese  blue  and 
white  drain-pipe;  and  passed  into  a  white  or  pale  grey  double 
drawing-room  with  a  few  rugs  on  a  shining  floor,  mauve  and 
black  and  white  chintz-covered  chairs,  an  exquisitely  appointed 
escritoire  in  a  dark  corner,  low  polished  tables  with  silver  trays 
and  bonbonni£res  on  them,  and  blue  and  white  china  here  and 
there,  flowers  in  tall  glasses,  one  or  two  pictures,  correct  but 
impersonal,  a  piano  in  the  back  drawing-room,  and  bulbs  in 
bowls  in  the  window.  It  was  all  perfectly  safe — it  represented 
correctly  a  certain  social  grade — but  it  was  entirely  without 
individuality.  Mrs.  Nugent,  after  all,  had  a  good  deal  of 
individuality.  The  penalty  of  the  climber,  however,  was  never 
to  be  sure  in  any  of  the  departments  of  taste.  She  got  no  further 
than  a  more  or  less  successful  copy,  picking  up  ideas  for  tables 
and  curtains  as  she  picked  up  ideas  for  conversation. 

"It  is  wonderful,"  Mrs.  Nugent  purred  on,  "the  way  in 
which  every  one  is  doing  something.  The  war  certainly  has 
called  out  the  best  in  people — given  them  a  call  and  a  chance 
nothing  else  could  have  done.  .  .  .  Your  workroom  sounds  so 
interesting,  Miss  Leonard. " 

"I  like  the  girls,  some  of  them,"  said  Daphne.  Her  tone 
was  rather  dry.  "They're  not  all  nice,  of  course. " 

"I  feel  quite  an  outsider,"  Mrs.  Nugent  sighed.  "One 
can't  feel  really  in  it,  if  one's  a  woman  and  one's  men  are  over 
forty.  One  envies  the  mother  of  sons,  doesn't  one?  Any- 
how, our  boys  have  done  splendidly,  haven't  they?" 

Daphne  felt  there  was  some  connection  she  ought  to  see, 
but  she  missed  it. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  murmured  vaguely,  wishing  to  escape,  but 
held  where  she  was  by  the  fact  that  she  had  a  cup  in  her  hand 
of  which  she  saw  no  means  of  getting  rid. 

"At  least  there  is  no  one  among  the  people  one  counts  as 
one's  own  who  could  fight  who  isn't  doing  his  bit,"  Mrs. 
Nugent  went  on,  her  eyes  very  wide  open  and  her  voice  full  of 
feeling.  "I  feel  so  glad  about  Godfrey  Toller.  .  .  .  But  dear 
Gervase  is  the  one  my  heart  aches  over.  ..."  Looking 
rather  hard  at  Daphne  she  went  on.  "Poor  Gervase;  he  would 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  327 

have  made    a   splendid    soldier,  wouldn't  he?"     She  sighed 
again. 

"  Mr.  O'Connor?  I  don't  know.  He  was  not  at  all  military 
in  his  ideas." 

Mrs.  Nugent  smiled. 

"Oh,  well,  no  one  was  before  the  war, "  she  said. 

"No,"  said  Daphne,  quickly  putting  on  her  gloves. 

"How  clever  of  you  to  have  French  gloves  still." 

Daphne  looked  up  in  some  surprise.  "  My  mother  got  them 
before  the  war." 

"One  wonders  whether  the  war  had  something  to  do  with 
poor  Gervase's  death."  Mrs.  Nugent  was  not  to  be  diverted. 

"I  thought  it  had  everything  to  do  with  it,"  said  Daphne, 
surprised. 

Mrs.  Nugent  laughed  and  tapped  her  gently  on  the  shoulder, 
regardless  of  the  girl's  involuntary  flinching. 

"That's  very  clever  of  you,  dear  Miss  Leonard,  but  is  it 
worth  while?" 

Daphne  raised  her  clear  eyes. 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  said. 

"No?  Oh,  well,  the  young  generation  is  queer.  I  should 
have  felt  rather  proud  if  any  one  had  gone  off  his  head  on  my 
account.  You  seem  to  prefer  to  know  nothing  about  it." 

Daphne's  stare  was  now  unmistakably  genuine.  Mrs. 
Nugent  went  on — 

"No  doubt  our  grandmothers  went  too  far  in  sensibility, 
but  I  must  say  the  modern  girl  seems  to  me  to  err  in  the  other 
extreme.  Though  perhaps  you  feel  it  a  responsibility?  Shirk- 
ing responsibility  is,  of  course,  absolutely  the  modern  note." 

During  this  speech  Daphne's  eyes  had  been  riveted  on  her 
hostess's  face.  It  was  incredible  that  Mrs.  Nugent  should 
invent  such  a  story,  there  seemed  no  kind  of  motive.  Daphne 
groped  darkly. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Mrs.  Nugent.  Mr.  O'Con- 
nor didn't  care  about  me,  as  you  seem  to  suggest.  It  was 
some  one  quite  different. " 

"If  you  mean  Myrtle  Toller,  I  am  not  taken  in  by  her.  It 
was  very  clever,  no  doubt — all  that  black  and  woe-begone  air 


328  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

of  hers — a  good  device  for  a  girl  whose  friends  have  all  got 
sweethearts  at  the  Front;  but  she  couldn't  put  it  on  with  me. 
But  it's  amazing,  simply  amazing,  that  you  were  taken  in.  ... 
Did  Nigel  never  tell  you?" 

Daphne  was  too  much  absorbed  in  this  sudden  opening 
of  windows  to  care  to  parry  Mrs.  Nugent 's  thrusts. 

"You  mean  that  it  was  on  account  of  me  that  he — 

"Certainly,  I  do.  I  knew  it  was  the  case.  If  you  don't 
believe  me,  ask  Nigel  or  ask  Mr.  Infield.  He  .  .  .  I'm  sorry 
if  I  have  told  you  something  unpleasant " 

Daphne's  eyes  were  full  of  unutterable  things.  They 
troubled  even  Mrs.  Nugent,  not  prone  to  be  troubled. 

"  Perhaps  I  shouldn't  have  said  anything. " 

"Oh,  yes.  ...  I'm  glad  to  be  told.  ...  I  ought  to  have 
known  long  ago.  .  .  .  But  why  did  you  tell  me,  Mrs.  Nugent?" 

Before  her  gaze  Mrs.  Nugent  felt  her  colour  suddenly  rising. 

"I  suppose  you  thought  I  knew  and  wanted  to  make  me 
uncomfortable  .  .  .  but  why?" 

Mrs.  Nugent  laughed. 

"Make  you  uncomfortable?  My  dear  Miss  Leonard,  what 
an  idea!  Only  I  am  glad  I  have  told  you  if  you  really  did  not 
know,  for  I'm  sure  it's  only  not  seeing  that  makes  you  so — how 
shall  I  put  it?  so  hard.  .  .  .  You're  very  young,  you  see; 
young  people  are  so  self-absorbed.  ...  I  expect  Nigel  spoils 
you 

Daphne  did  not  smile. 

"Yes,"  she  said  slowly;  "I  expect  he  does." 

"Sometimes,"  Mrs.  Nugent  flowed  on,  in  a  low,  confi- 
dential tone,  "an  older  woman  can  help.  One  sees  further, 
when  one's  not  thinking  about  oneself.  .  .  .  Nigel's  looking 
very  tired  and  thin,  I  think.  .  .  .  You  must  not  forget  he's 
older  than  he  looks. " 

"No?" 

"One  can't  adapt  oneself  so  readily  then.  .  .  .  Perhaps 
you're  rather — well,  how  shall  I  say? — exigeante?  I  know  what 
I  was  at  your  age.  .  .  .  Ah,  there  is  Nigel.  ...  I  must  go  and 
get  him  some  tea.  .  .  .  But  I'm  so  glad  we've  had  this  little 
talk,  dear  Miss  Leonard.  Do  come  and  see  me  some  time " 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  329 

She  disappeared,  smiling,  through  a  passage  that  opened 
in  the  block  of  people  between  them  and  the  door.  The  dis- 
persion of  groups  caused  by  her  movement  brought  Daphne 
up  against  Nigel  and  Myrtle  Toller.  Myrtle  had  her  back  to 
Daphne,  who,  however,  was  near  enough  to  her  to  be  tickled 
by  the  long  pale  blue  plume  of  her  hat;  while  with  Nigel  she 
was  face  to  face  for  an  instant  before  he  saw  her.  He  was 
smiling  and  evidently  happy  and  absorbed,  the  tense  and  irri- 
tated look  had  been  wiped  from  his  face,  and  yet  Myrtle  was 
saying  to  him  just  those  things  Daphne  knew  she  must  not 
trench  upon. 

"I  think  you  ought  to  go,  Nigel,  since  I  hear  old  Davis  is 
on  his  way  back.  After  all,  you're  within  the  old  age  limit, 
aren't  you?  apart  from  the  new  appeal.  I  can't  see  why  you 
don't.  .  .  .  You  haven't  any  moral  objection  to  killing,  surely? 
Or  has  Daphne  made  you  a  Quaker?" 

"Oh,  no ;  she  allows  me  the  freedom  of  my  barbarian  errors ! " 
he  laughed.  But  as  he  laughed  his  gaze  shifted — Nigel's  self- 
consciousness  was  a  delicate  thing — and  met  Daphne's.  Instant- 
ly his  eyes  narrowed,  the  little  lines  refurrowed  themselves  on 
his  forehead. 

"Hullo,  Daphne!"  he  said;  "I've  never  met  you  here 
before." 

Myrtle  turned  round.  She  was  looking  absolutely  pretty 
under  her  wide  hat,  and  Daphne  at  another  time  might  have 
felt  envy  of  some  one  who  could  come  out  in  such  dirty  gloves 
and  preserve  complete  ease  and  a  convincing  elegance  that 
came  from  ease.  Myrtle  was  sure  of  herself;  if  a  wisp  of  hair 
lay  across  her  forehead  she  made  it  a  decorative  asset,  just  as 
she  did  her  dirty  gloves.  Daphne  always  felt  awkward  and 
prim,  over-charged  with  inappropriate  seriousness.  At  the 
moment,  however,  none  of  this  mattered. 

"I'm  telling  Nigel  he  ought  to  take  a  commission,"  Myrtle 
said.  "Do  you  not  agree?" 

"Yes,"  said  Daphne,  after  a  second's  pause;  "I  think  any 
one  who  approves  of  war  should  go. " 

"Good  heavens,  child!"  cried  Myrtle.  "Approves  of  the 
war!  What  does  it  matter  whether  one  approves  or  not? 


330  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

How  can  one  not  approve  when  the  Germans  are  such  devils? 
But  I  forgot,  you've  become  a  pro-German.  I  wonder  Nigel 
allows  it!" 

"Oh,  I  have  no  influence  over  her  thoughts,"  said  Nigel 
quickly. 

"You've  improved,  I  see,"  Myrtle  laughed.  "I  was  right 
after  all,  wasn't  I?  What  a  pity  you  didn't  see  it  before!" 

Her  eyes  met  his  with  a  candour  that  was  a  challenge  to 
Daphne,  in  its  reference  to  things  unknown  to  her  but  under- 
stood by  the  other  two. 

"Yes, "  said  Nigel,  "  I  agree.     It  is  a  pity. " 

Myrtle  was  still  laughing  as  she  turned  away. 

"Well — it  may  not  be  too  late,"  she  murmured;  "the 
whirligig  of  time  brings  round  many  revenges. " 

She  left  them  standing  side  by  side  in  a  silence  neither 
seemed  inclined  to  break.  After  a  few  moments  that  to  each 
seemed  long,  Nigel  suggested  that  they  should  go.  Daphne 
at  once  acquiesced. 

"Did  Mabel  ask  you  down  to  Tenacre  for  Christmas?" 
said  Nigel,  as  they  left  the  house  together  and  walked  towards 
Sloane  Street. 

Daphne  shook  her  head.  Mrs.  Nugent  had  said  a  great 
many  things,  but  not  that. 

"I'm  going  down,"  Nigel  went  on. 

"Yes."  Daphne  accepted  it.  "Mother  told  me — she 
expects  me  on  Saturday. " 

"Oh,  then  you'd  feel,  I  suppose,  that  you  can't  go. " 

Daphne  stared  in  front  of  her  at  a  soldier  obviously  three 
parts  drunk,  who  was  making  his  way  unsteadily  along,  knock- 
ing into  people  and  falling  against  the  wall.  Nigel's  remark 
was  a  statement,  not  a  question. 

They  walked  on  in  silence.     Then  Daphne  said — 

"I'm  going  up  to  the  flat  now  to  see  about  getting  it  ready. 
The  people  who  had  it  go  out  to-day  or  to-morrow.  Will 
you  walk  across  the  Park?  " 

Nigel  glanced  at  a  clock  in  a  shop. 

"I'm  dining  out,"  he  said,  "but  I  dare  say  I  could  manage 
it." 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  331 

On  the  'bus  that  took  them  down  Sloane  Street  Daphne 
said  nothing,  nor  did  she  say  anything  for  some  time  after 
they  had  entered  the  Park,  except  to  suggest  that  it  was  a 
wonderful  night  and  the  Round  Pond  would  be  looking  beauti- 
ful. 

"Yes,"  said  Nigel;  "but  the  Gardens  will  be  shut." 

The  icy  wind  that  had  blown  the  streets  dry  all  the  earlier 
part  of  the  day  had  dropped  at  sundown,  and  the  bare  trees 
were  shrouded  in  a  blue-grey  beauty  like  that  of  early  morning. 
Overhead  the  sky  was  dark,  with  a  clear  cold  darkness,  and 
high  up  a  tiny  crescent  moon  floated,  transparent  as  a  shred 
of  filmy  lace.  Nigel  made  one  or  two  casual  remarks,  but 
Daphne  let  them  all  drop.  When  she  spoke  her  words  came  out 
as  though  she  had  been  waiting  all  the  time  to  utter  them. 

"Nigel,  did  you  know  about  Gervase  O'Connor?" 

"What  about  him?"  Nigel's  tone  was  sharp,  and  it  re- 
quired three  matches  to  light  his  cigarette. 

"That  he  ...  cared  for  me."  Daphne's  voice  had  sunk 
very  low,  but  the  words  were  distinct.  Nigel  nodded;  he  looked 
relieved. 

"Gervase  never  kept  anything  to  himself,  you  know,"  he 
said,  as  if  by  way  of  explanation. 

"  Did  you  know  that  he  cared  when  he  was  down  at  Tenacre 
the  time  we" — she  hesitated — "the  time  we  met?" 

"Of  course  I  did.  I  asked  Mabel  to  ask  you  on  that  plea. 
I  couldn't  tell  her  I  wanted  you  on  my  own.  It  would  have 
been  .  .  .  giving  the  show  away." 

"Yes."  Daphne  looked  at  him.  "She  wouldn't  have 
liked  it,  you  mean?" 

"Or  you  might  have  refused,  and  then  I  should  have  looked 
an  ass  for  my  pains."  He  was  smiling  now,  but  there  was  no 
hint  of  a  smile  in  the  face  Daphne  raised  to  him. 

"I  see,"  she  said  slowly,  still  in  the  same  toneless  voice. 
"Do  you  remember  we  met  him  .  .  .  that  day?  when  we 
were  coming  out  of  the  orchard.  ...  I  can  see  his  face  now. " 

"No.  I  can't  say  I  do.  I  had  other  things  to  think  of. 
But  don't  think  of  him,  Daphne.  It's  quite  hopeless." 

"Yes,  quite,"  she  said.     Something  in  the  expression  of 


DEAD    YESTERDAY 

her  voice  made  Nigel  turn  his  head  to  scrutinise  her  face.  But 
her  eyes  were  on  the  road,  and  the  profile  turned  to  him  might 
have  been  cut  out  of  wax,  it  was  so  pale  and  still. 

Another  silence  fell.     Then  Daphne  said — 

"Did  you  know  about  him  before  you  began  to  care  for 
me?" 

"Dear  child,  what  a  catechism!    How  can  I  remember?" 

Daphne  at  that  turned  and  looked  at  him  before  she  said, 
"I  suppose  it  wouldn't  strike  you."  She  paused;  then  as  he 
said  nothing,  she  went  on,  "You  didn't  like  him  much,  did 
you?" 

"Gervase?  He  was  a  nice  creature  in  many  ways,  but 
mad,  you  know. " 

"Mad?"  she  said  quietly.  "That's  what  you  call  it.  ... 
Do  I  strike  you  as  mad  too,  Nigel?"  She  spoke  very  gently, 
but  her  eyes  were  serious. 

"Oh,  no!"  he  cried  politely. 

"Oh,  Nigel! "  Daphne  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  path  to 
give  more  earnestness  to  her  words.  "Don't  talk  to  me  as  if 
I  were  a  social  acquaintance  or  a  child.  .  .  .  You  freeze 
me." 

Her  eyes  were  on  his  face  now,  and  they  seemed  to  him  to 
burn  with  a  sombre  glow,  vivid  against  the  blue  shadows  that 
were  gradually  closing  round  them. 

"Well,"  he  said  quickly,  "you  frighten  me  sometimes." 

"Ah!"  A  low  cry  came  from  her.  "I  do  strike  you  as 
mad " 

They  walked  on  in  silence.  Behind  the  darkening  trees 
a  few  pale  yellow  lights  had  begun  to  appear,  and  before  them 
the  sky  grew  purple  as  one  by  one  the  stars  came  out.  To  Nigel 
the  whole  scene  seemed  dim  and  dreamlike;  he  felt  himself  like 
a  figure  in  a  faded  tapestry,  vanishing,  as  the  dusk  gathered, 
into  the  obliterating  haze.  Daphne  by  his  side  was  remote, 
and  he  was  glad  of  her  remoteness.  The  sense  of  irritation 
against  her  with  which  first  Hugh  and  then  Mabel  Nugent  had 
filled  him,  gradually  died  away.  It  had  been  acute  while  she 
had  catechised  him  so  uselessly  about  Gervase,  but  now  with 
the  removal  of  that  violent  image  and  her  own  subsidence, 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  333 

tranquillity  had  returned.  He  looked  at  her.  The  glow  had 
died  from  her  face,  leaving  her  again  very  pale. 

"I  think,  you  know,"  he  said,  "Gervase  is  a  kind  of  warn- 
ing for  one.  Violence  does  turn  against  itself  and  destroy." 

Daphne  looked  at  him. 

"Yes, "  she  said,  still  in  a  quiet  dead  voice. 

They  walked  on  in  silence  until  they  reached  the  Alexandra 
Gate  and  passed  through  the  gates  into  Kensington  Gore. 
Across  the  dark  arch  of  the  sky  there  swung  a  sudden  track  of 
light,  that  swept  over  them  and  disappeared  into  the  darkness 
again. 

"Searchlight,"  said  Nigel,  looking  up.  He  had  not  looked 
at  Daphne  while  it  passed,  but  she,  he  knew,  had  been  looking 
at  him.  He  did  not  want  to  meet  that  gaze  again,  nor  did  he 
want  to  answer  any  more  questions. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  "I  had  better  get  into  a  'bus  here.  A 
No.  9  is  sure  to  come  in  a  minute;  yours  goes  from  the 
other  side. "  Daphne  made  no  comment,  nor  did  she  move  or 
hold  out  her  hand. 

"You're  going  to  Wending  End  for  Christmas?"  he  said. 

She  nodded. 

"I  shall  be  at  Tenacre  till  the  Tuesday  morning." 

This  seemed  to  recall  her. 

"Tuesday?"  she  said.  "Then  will  you  come  up  to  the 
flat  and  see  me  in  the  early  afternoon?  I  shall  be  alone; 
mother  doesn't  come  back  till  the  middle  of  the  week.  Yes, 
please,"  as  he  looked  dubious.  "I  do  want  to  see  you.  .  .  . 
There's  something  I  want  to  talk  over  with  you. " 

" Can't  we  do  it  now?    That  seems  so  .  .  .  formal." 

Daphne  stared  at  an  advancing  'bus  and  shook  her  head. 

"I'm  not  quite  ready  yet,"  she  said.  "I  want  it  so,  if 
you  don't  mind." 

"All  right,  then.  .  .  .  And,  in  case  I  don't  see  you  again, 
a  Happy  Christmas!" 

But  Daphne  had  swiftly  crossed  the  road  and  disappeared. 
Nigel  smiled  a  little  dubiously,  and  told  himself  that  a  holiday 
would  do  them  both  good. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX 

OLD  Esther  stood,  the  door  of  the  sitting-room  in  her 
floury  hand;  letting  in  the  raw  damp  air  so  that  Mrs. 
Leonard  shivered  in  spite  of  the  fire  at  her  back.  It 
was  a  habit  of  Esther's,  thus  to  stand  at  the  half-open  door 
discoursing,  of  which  Mrs.  Leonard  had  in  years  not  been 
able  to  cure  her:  if  asked  to  come  in,  she  went  away. 
Esther  was  not  really  old,  though  she  looked  much  more 
than  her  five-and-forty  years,  because  her  thin  hair  was 
quite  grey  and  her  hard-bitten  face  covered  all  over 
with  tiny  wrinkles;  but  in  Wending  End  she  was  always 
called  old  Esther  since  her  daughter,  young  Esther,  had, 
to  the  surprise  of  the  village,  married  the  one-legged 
bootmaker.  Every  one  had  condoled  with  her  mother  at  the 
time;  but  young  Esther  was  now  regarded  as  the  luckiest 
woman  in  Wending  End,  for  she  alone  had  got  her  man  at 
home  with  her. 

Old  Esther  surveyed  the  table  covered  with  writing  ma- 
terials, her  eyes  round.  Mrs.  Leonard's  table  had  always 
been  covered  with  writing,  but  Esther  had  never  ceased  to 
marvel  at  it. 

"I'd  rather  do  scrubbing  or  washing  any  day  than  writ- 
ing," she  said.  "It  takes  me  all  my  time  to  write  a  letter 
one  week  to  Ben  and  the  next  to  Gunny.  All  those  pages! 
what's  the  use  of  it  all,  mum?" 

Mrs.  Leonard  smiled. 

"I  don't  know,  Esther.    Not  much,  I'm  afraid." 

"Are  you  writing  another  book?  ...  I  wish  you'd  write 
something  I  could  read;  I  couldn't  get  on  with  the  one  you 

334 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  335 

gave    me.      It    had    some    funny    name    I    couldn't    say,    I 
know." 

"Yes;  but  I  don't  know  that  you'll  want  to  read  it,  Esther. 
It's  about  the  war." 

"About  the  war?  What  is  there  to  say  about  the 
war?" 

Mrs.  Leonard  laid  down  her  pen.  What  indeed  was  there 
to  say? 

"But  I  suppose,"  Esther  went  on,  "you  can  understand 
it  all." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Leonard  sadly;  "no.  But  I  can't 
think  about  anything  else." 

A  knock  at  the  outer  door  called  Esther  away  for  an  in- 
stant. She  returned  with  shining  face.  "Here's  some- 
thing to  please  you,  mum.  Yes,  there  is  one  from  missy 
.  .  .  it's  under  the  other  two  dry-looking  ones."  She 
smiled  with  pleasure  in  the  success  of  her  little  ruse, 
repeated  every  time  there  was  a  letter  from  Daphne. 
"That's  something  better  than  your  dry  writing.  When's 
missy  coming?"  Mrs.  Leonard  was  reading  her  letter — 
a  very  short  letter — with  an  expression  that  made  Esther 
cry  with  real  concern:  "Oh,  isn't  missy  coming  for  Christ- 
mas?" 

Mrs.  Leonard  laid  down  the  single  sheet. 

"Yes.     She  is  coming.     But  not  till  Christmas  Eve." 

"Oh!"  Esther's  face  fell.  "And  her  young  man,  is  he 
coming  too?  I  do  want  to  see  him,  though  I  can't  believe 
he's  good  enough  for  missy." 

Mrs.  Leonard  shook  her  head.  "No,  he  can't  come.  He's 
too  busy." 

"Can't  come?"  said  Esther.  "I  call  that  a  shame.  And 
he's  not  a  soldier  either,  is  he?" 

Mrs.  Leonard  did  not  look  up.  She  felt  that  old  Esther's 
judgment  had  been  passed. 

"No."  She  took  up  the  other  letter.  "But  Mr.  Infield 
is.  He'll  be  here  for  Christmas,  I  hope:  he's  coming  a  day 
or  two  before." 

Esther's  face  brightened. 


336  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

"I  must  get  to  that  plum-pudding,"  she  said.  "He  al- 
ways liked  my  puddings.  .  .  .  But  I'm  that  disappointed 
not  to  see  Mr.  Strode.  It's  hard  on  Miss  Daphne.  She  won't 
enjoy  her  Christmas  without  him.  I  can't  think  he  is  good 
enough  for  her." 

Mrs.  Leonard  could  not  pursue  this  line  of  thought.  "Have 
you  any  news,  Esther?  How  is  Gunny  getting  on?"  Gunny, 
old  Esther's  younger  boy,  was  down  with  pneumonia  on  Salis- 
bury Plain. 

"Oh,  he's  all  right,  I  guess,"  said  Esther.  "He's  in  Eng- 
land; he'll  come  to  no  harm.  It's  poor  Ben  I'm  wor- 
riting over.  .  .  .  Not  knowing  where  he  is;  thinking 
those  Kaiser  devils  may  have  got  him — that  fair  takes  the 
life  out  of  me,  it  does.  .  .  .  But  there,  other  people  have 
worse  to  bear  than  what  I  have.  Look  at  poor  Mrs.  Clark. 
Her  husband's  been  out  three  months  now,  and  she's  only 
had  one  postcard  since  he  got  wounded  in  the  head;  and  her 
Jim — him  she  thought  so  much  of,  you  remember,  mum, 
he's  gone  crazy.  Yes,  Bill  Gretton,  he  was  in  the  same 
company,  wrote  and  told  her;  he  just  lies  on  his  back 
and  talks  like  a  silly  about  swallows  on  the  roof  when 
there  ain't  no  swallows — nothing  but  flies.  He  just 
lies  and  counts  them  all  day  long.  And  he  was  a  bright  lad, 
was  Jim  Clark.  But  everybody's  got  something;  and  those 
that  haven't  yet,  it's  coming  for.  There's  hardly  a  house 
in  this  village  that  hasn't  got  some  one  to  worrit  about.  .  .  . 
But  I  must  be  getting  back  to  that  pudding,  and  you  want  to 
go  on  with  your  writing." 

Old  Esther  closed  the  door  behind  her;  but  Mrs.  Leon- 
ard did  not  find  it  easy  to  get  back  to  her  writing.  She  had 
thought  that  in  the  country  she  might,  if  not  escape 
from  the  war,  at  least  learn  to  see  it  in  some  proportion;  but 
as  the  long  days  of  autumn  passed  into  winter,  she 
found  that  it  oppressed  and  enchained  her  imagination 
not  less  but  more  completely.  In  Wending  End  there 
was  no  excitement,  there  never  had  been  any.  The  war  stood 
there  for  nothing  but  suffering.  It  had  come  upon  the 
village  like  a  black  thunder-cloud,  as  unintelligible  as 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  337 

the  rain  that  came  and  ruined  their  crops.  There  was 
no  need  for  recruiting  meetings  there,  the  young  men 
had  all  gone;  the  day's  work  was  left  to  the  old,  the 
halt,  the  maimed,  the  women  and  the  children.  They 
did  not  understand  or  try  to  understand  it  in  Wending 
End;  they  simply  accepted  it,  as  part  of  the  inscrutable, 
painful  order  of  life.  Life  was  always  hard  there;  its 
anxiety,  which  used  to  be  no  more  than  the  monotonous 
pressure  of  the  problem  of  making  both  ends  meet,  had  taken 
on  a  keener  edge,  that  was  all.  This  dumb  accept- 
ance seemed  to  Aurelia  Leonard  terrible.  She  almost 
wished  that  the  suffering  women,  whom  she  hardly  dared 
to  visit,  because  their  pain  was  so  much  greater  than  hers, 
and  they  bore  it  in  such  silence,  would  cry  out  or  revolt.  They 
did  not.  They  only  waited.  The  earth  waited,  but 
for  its  renewal  in  the  spring;  these  people  waited  in 
fear,  not  in  hope.  A  northern  regiment  was  billeted  in 
the  village:  each  of  the  dark  damp  little  houses  was 
filled  to  over-crowding  with  men  who  at  night  slept  on 
straw,  ranged  in  rows  like  animals.  In  the  muddy  roads — it 
rained  without  ceasing — Aurelia  used  to  meet  them  march- 
ing. Peeling  off  from  the  rotting  tree-stumps  on  the 
roads  along  which  they  tramped  there  hung  limp  posters, 
telling  men  that  their  King  and  country  needed  them. 
Needed  them  for  what?  No  one  might  ask:  no  one  did  ask. 
Certainly  no  one  in  Wending  End.  Except  Aurelia  Leon- 
ard. She  asked  incessantly,  how  had  it  come  to  be, 
this  agony.  The  war  was  not  a  thunderstorm,  nor,  though 
the  clergyman  must  say  so,  a  voice  from  on  high.  It 
was  an  event  with  causes,  and  those  causes  must  lie 
in  the  minds  and  wills  of  European  men.  They  did  not,  she 
felt  sure,  come  out  of  the  silence  of  the  country,  or 
from  the  maligned  impulses  of  Nature;  but  out  of  the 
noise  of  the  towns,  where  the  factories  whirred  and  engines 
thundered,  where  people  toiled  at  mechanical  work  and 
drugged  themselves  with  mechanical  pleasure,  seeking 
frenziedly  to  escape  from  the  horror  which  man  had  made 
of  his  life.  In  the  country,  even  under  the  sodden  rains,  there 


338  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

was  beauty,  quiet,  an  instinctive  satisfaction  in  the  mere 
act  of  moving  and  looking.  As  Aurelia  looked  out  of 
her  high  window  in  the  morning,  across  the  water-logged 
fields  to  where  against  the  white  sky  the  thin  branches 
of  the  trees  waved,  or  at  night  up  to  the  purple  dark- 
ness lit  only  by  one  watery  star,  she  felt  it;  and  knew  that 
somehow,  however  obscurely,  it  stirred  in  the  slow  silent 
people  of  the  village. 

But  the  country  was  deserted,  drained  of  life.  Twen- 
tieth-century Europe  had  its  being  not  in  the  country,  but 
in  towns;  in  those  towns  where  existence  had  become  an  un- 
bearable strain,  where  the  weariness  of  work  for  wages 
drove  the  starving  soul  to  deaden  its  unhappiness  with 
drink  or  obliterate  it  with  excitement.  Work  was  a 
mechanical  slavery;  love  a  blind  rage  of  brief  possession: 
religion  a  drug  that  had  ceased  to  operate.  Too  tired 
to  think,  too  jaded  to  feel,  too  unhappy  to  believe,  men  and 
women  sought  in  excitement  the  only  relief  they  Joiew 
from  the  ennui  that  grew  as  they  struggled,  frantically, 
to  escape  from  it.  They  had  got  beyond,  in  the  cant 
modern  phrase,  everything  else.  From  ennui  they  swung 
to  violence,  and  from  violence  back  to  ennui;  and  violence 
culminated  in  death.  To  spirits  weary  of  life  death  was 
the  one  adventure  left.  And  so,  death  ruled  over  Europe. 
Aurelia  remembered  what  Hugh  Infield  had  said,  when 
speaking  to  her  of  the  suicide  of  Gervase  O'Connor,  how 
he  had  spoken  of  his  belonging  to  a  generation  tainted 
with  the  disease  of  death;  and  she  saw  that  he  was 
right.  Right  because,  though  death  ruled,  there  were 
people  who  glorified  its  ghastly  reign  and  hailed  it  as  the 
return  of  reality.  Nigel's  battlefield  article,  which  she 
read  with  a  kind  of  heartsickness,  forced  Aurelia  to  admit, 
what  she  had  before  always  denied,  that  there  were  those 
who  gloated  over  war.  Old  men  had  done  it,  in  letters 
and  pamphlets  that  made  her  shudder;  but  that  Nigel 
could  do  it  was  a  more  dreadful  turn  of  the  screw.  She  had 
refused  to  see  his  early  enthusiasm  as  gloating.  It  was 
possible  to  accept  the  war  as  right  without  that;  and 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  339 

she  had  given  him  the  benefit  of  every  doubt.  But 
the  battlefield  article  killed  any  lingering  hope.  It  horri- 
fied and  appalled  her  and  made  her  tremble  for  her 
daughter.  What  must  it  not  make  Daphne  feel?  That  she 
would  feel,  though  she  -night  not  understand,  Mrs.  Leon- 
ard felt  certain.  Feeling  with  Daphne  was  far  ahead, 
often,  of  intellectual  understanding.  She  might  not, 
she  probably  would  not,  know  why  Nigel's  article  was 
horrible:  but  she  would  feel  it  to  be  horrible,  and  Aure- 
lia  blanched  when  she  thought  of  what  that  blind  feel- 
ing must  make  her  suffer.  That  she  was  suffering  she 
knew  from  her  letters:  from  their  silence.  Daphne  wrote, 
but  said  nothing.  She  talked  about  her  work  and  the 
people  she  saw  in  connection  with  it;  a  new  world,  the 
world  of  Labour,  was,  through  it,  opening  before  her, 
and  into  it  she  was  gradually  making  her  way.  That  was 
all  good.  She  mentioned  that  she  had  been  out  several  times 
to  see  little  Jane  Delahaye,  who  was  wonderful,  and 
gradually  getting  stronger  in  spite  of  everything,  helped 
by  Leonora.  But  of  Nigel  she  said  nothing.  She  no 
longer  sent  her  mother  the  New  World.  It  was  from  Nigel, 
not  from  her,  that  Mrs.  Leonard  had  received  the  battlefield 
article. 

December  dragged  slowly  on.  Mrs.  Leonard  knew  how 
to  wait,  and  she  waited.  She  hoped  much  from  Hugh  In- 
field's visit.  But  when  Hugh  arrived,  only  two  days  before 
Christmas,  she  found  that  he  had  no  news  to  give  her.  He 
had  seen  Nigel,  but  not  Daphne;  and  of  Nigel  he  had  little 
to  say  that  he  could,  or  would,  report. 

Hugh  arrived  suddenly  late  in  the  evening,  as  Aurelia 
was  sitting  down  to  supper,  which  Esther  would  not  per- 
mit to  be  further  delayed  beyond  its  proper  time.  During 
the  meal  and  afterwards,  when  they  sat  on  either  side  of  the 
fire,  he  said  little,  and  that  mostly  newspaper  talk,  or 
the  trivial  incidents  of  his  journey.  Aurelia  saw  that  he 
was  making  an  effort  after  his  old  rather  mocking  manner; 
he  wanted,  desperately,  to  be  normal.  For  Hugh  to 
want  to  be  anything  was  a  sign  of  deep-seated  abnormality. 


340  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

France  had  told  on  him.  He  looked  older.  The  white 
had  gained  on  the  black  in  his  shaggy  hair,  there  was  a 
strained  tightness  about  his  mouth,  the  lines  round  his  deep- 
set  eyes  were  deeper,  and  the  eyes  themselves,  behind 
their  round  protecting  spectacles,  had  a  haunted  look. 
When  he  was  not  talking  he  stared  into  emptiness,  as 
if,  for  him,  it  were  peopled,  and  not  agreeably.  Mrs.  Leon- 
ard accepted  the  light  tone  he  tried  to  set.  She  talked  of 
Wending  End,  telling  him  stories  of  Esther  and  of  the  women 
she  had  got  to  know  in  the  village,  and  describing  the  little 
incidents  of  life  there. 

But  between  them  this  kind  of  fencing  could  not  be  long 
kept  up. 

"Aren't  you  dreadfully  lonely  here?"  Hugh  asked. 

They  had  been  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  and  in  the  silence 
broken  by  no  sound  from  outside  he  had  become  conscious 
of  the  quiet  of  the  place. 

"Without  Daphne?  Yes."  Hugh  frowned  a  little.  "But 
I'm  used  to  being  lonely,"  she  said.  "Of  course  the  war  makes 
it  bad." 

Hugh  moved  impatiently. 

"The  war  makes  it  impossible,"  he  said. 

She  turned  to  him  on  that,  as  if  asking  a  question. 

"No,  don't  ask  me  about  it  this  evening,"  he  exclaimed. 
"Oh,  don't  be  afraid  I  shan't  inflict  enough  of  it  on  you,  I  can't 
help  it;  but  I'm  not  going  to  begin  to-night." 

He  leaned  towards  the  fire,  his  head  propped  on  his  hands, 
and  stared  at  the  glowing  sparks  that  poured  out  from  the 
peat,  and  the  blue  below  that  grew  under  the  bellows  in  Aure- 
lia's  hands. 

"Tell  me  about  Daphne,"  he  said.  "No,  I've  not  seen 
her,"  in  answer  to  Mrs.  Leonard's  quick  questioning 
look.  "I  saw  Nigel  and  some  of  the  others,  had  ten 
minutes  at  the  Foreign  Office,  and  saw  Coventry,  but  not 
Daphne." 

Mrs.  Leonard  did  not  reply.    Instead  she  asked — 

"Tell  me  about  Nigel.     What  did  he  talk  about?" 

"Nigel?"     Hugh   shrugged   his   shoulders.      "He  wanted 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  341 

copy,  that  was  all.  He  talked  about  the  war.  And 
about  poor  Herbert  Toller.  .  .  .  But  I  needn't  ask  about 
Daphne.  I  can  see;  I  have  never  seen  you  look  so  badly, 
Aurelia." 

"  Daphne  is  inside  a  wall  of  glass;  I'm  outside.    That's  all." 

Hugh  looked  at  her  dubiously.     "Not  really?" 

"Yes.  Really.  I  have  never  been  so  far  away  before. 
I  understand  it,  but  that  only  makes  it  worse.  Because  I 
know  how  she's  suffering." 

"It  was  no  use,  your  going  away,  then?" 

Mrs.  Leonard  did  not  reply.  But  the  expression  with 
which  she  stared  at  the  fire,  the  limp  grace  of  her  hands  in 
her  lap,  were  answer  sufficient  for  Hugh.  She  knew  it  had 
been  no  use.  No  need  for  him  to  add  to  that  dreary 
certainty. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "she  still  cares  for  him." 

Hugh's  sentence  might  have  been  a  question.  She  merely 
affirmed  it.  "Of  course." 

"It's  a  curse,  you  know,  to  care  like  that."  Hugh  spoke 
drily,  but  his  tone  grew  almost  savage  as  he  added:  "And 
for  Nigel.  How  can  she?" 

Mrs.  Leonard  sighed.     "Oh,  Hugh!" 

"You  can't  expect  me  to  understand  that?" 

"Or  me  not  to,"  she  breathed,  on  a  smile. 

Hugh  pushed  back  his  chair  and  walked  across  the  room, 
as  far  as  its  narrow  space  permitted,  and  back. 

"It's  damnable,"  he  said.  As  she  looked  at  him,  half 
doubtful  of  his  meaning,  he  added,  "That  it  should  happen 
again." 

She  made  no  comment.  None  was  needed.  She  knew 
that  he  was  thinking,  as  she  had  been  thinking,  of  Richard 
Leonard. 

"Why,"  Hugh  broke  out  again  after  a  short  silence, 
"should  there  be  this  gratuitous  pain  for  you?  Isn't  it  enough, 
to  have  the  war,  on  top  of  everything  else,  without 
this?" 

"This  is  the  worst,"  she  murmured.  Hugh  looked  at 
her.  As  she  sat  leaning  forward,  the  firelight  throwing  a 


342  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

ruddy  light  on  her  pale  face  and  soft  dress  of  thick  white 
wool,  it  was  impossible  to  believe  in  the  years  that  had 
passed  between  them.  To  him,  in  spite  of  her  white 
hair,  Aurelia  looked  as  she  had  looked  fifteen  years  ago. 
She  had  returned  to  that  time  in  her  thoughts  and  it 
was  vividly  present  to  him,  as  it  had  been  ever  since 
that  day  in  Kensington  Gardens  when  she  had  suddenly  let 
him  come  near  her  again,  so  near  that  for  him  Daphne  and 
Daphne's  joy  or  suffering  became  only  an  episode  in  the  more 
moving  story  of  Aurelia  herself.  It  was  not  so  to  her.  To 
her  the  past  came  back,  because  of  the  light  it  seemed  to 
cast  on  Daphne.  But  as  Hugh  gazed  into  that  past  which 
was  his  as  well  as  hers,  he  forgot  Daphne  and  thought  of 
Aurelia  and  of  himself. 

"My  terror  is,"  Aurelia  went  on,  "that  Daphne  is  so 
young  that  she  may  fail,  as  I  did,  to  understand  what's  hap- 
pening to  her." 

Hugh  wondered.     "Does  that  matter?" 

"Oh,  Hugh,  yes.  It  matters  more  than  anything.  .  .  . 
If  you  understand  your  experience  you  can  conquer  it."  She 
got  up  on  this  and  moved  towards  the  little  table  on 
which  candles  stood.  Turning  as  she  lit  them  she  met  Hugh's 
eyes,  bent  on  her  with  an  expression  that  made  her 
nervous.  It  was  the  expression  he  had  worn  when  he 
came  in,  and  it  had  given  her  a  pang  then.  It  held 
the  suggestion  of  something  in  him  that  she  dreaded  and 
wanted  to  keep  at  bay.  But  now  as  their  eyes  encountered 
for  a  moment,  her  feeling  was  complicated.  For  sud- 
denly she  had  a  doubt  as  to  whether  what  she  really 
felt  about  it  was,  after  all,  dread;  whether  there  were 
not,  too,  something  in  herself  that  answered  his  appeal  and 
even  went  out  to  meet  it.  Under  his  eyes  something 
stirred:  her  own  personal  life,  so  long  buried,  buried,  she 
had  believed,  the  more  deeply  by  the  weight  of  that  half- 
hour  of  shamefaced  memory  in  which  Nigel  Strode  had  called 
it,  for  an  instant,  to  the  surface.  But  Hugh  had  powers 
of  evocation  that  were  his  alone.  The  past,  with  all 
its  mingled  pain  and  sweetness,  lay  always  under  his  hand. 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  343 

She  had  believed  the  desire  to  stir  it  dead.  To-night  she 
knew  it  lived,  that  desire;  and  she  did  not  know  whether  she 
were  sorry  or  glad. 

Although  it  lacked  but  two  days  of  Christmas,  the  air 
was  mild,  and  Aurelia,  going  up  to  her  own  high-perched 
room,  sat  for  long  by  her  window,  staring  out  into  the 
impenetrable  soft  darkness  of  the  night.  The  rain  had 
ceased,  but  the  sky  was  opaque,  lit  by  no  star.  The  small 
copse  to  the  right  hid  the  scattered  lights  of  the  village. 
Even  the  road,  which  generally  lay  white  across  the 
opposite  hillside,  was  invisible.  After  the  incessant  drip 
and  splash  of  the  rain  on  roof  and  yard  the  hush  had  a  mys- 
terious quality,  as  if  some  unseen  presence  were  hold- 
ing its  breath  before  whispering  in  the  listening  watcher's 
ear  its  secret.  Aurelia  sat  quite  still  on  the  low  settee,  her 
elbows  propped  on  the  window-ledge,  her  hands  covering 
her  burning  cheeks,  her  eyes  resting  on  the  darkness.  Through 
her  there  throbbed  an  unanalysable  emotion,  in  which  fear 
and  joy  mingled  and  melted  with  an  almost  fainting  sweet- 
ness. At  first  she  tried  to  think,  to  control  and  order 
her  sensations;  then  with  a  sigh  she  abandoned  herself  to  them. 

Suddenly  she  got  up.  "It's  absurd!  At  my  age!"  she 
murmured;  but  she  was  smiling  when  she  looked  at  herself 
in  the  glass;  and  for  more  than  a  minute  she  stood  so,  still 
looking  and  smiling. 

The  next  day  was  Christmas  Eve.  The  rain  still  held 
off,  and  the  sky,  so  long  leaden  with  moisture,  arched  over- 
head in  unbroken  pallor.  There  were  no  clouds  anywhere, 
but  the  sun  seemed  to  have  retreated  far  out  of  sight  be- 
hind the  thick  whiteness  of  the  atmosphere.  Aurelia 
saw  that  Hugh  must  talk;  and  as  she  had  a  hatred 
of  talk  in  small  rooms,  as  soon  as  the  postman  had 
come,  bringing  nothing  but  newspapers,  they  set  off  with 
lunch  in  their  pockets.  Old  Esther  promised  to  send  a  boy 
in  search  of  them — Mrs.  Leonard  described  their  probable 
route — should  the  expected  telegram  from  Daphne  come 
while  they  were  out. 


344  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

Soon  Hugh  began  to  talk;  and  as  he  talked,  as  bit  by  bit 
it  came  out,  the  raw  reality  of  war,  Aurelia  shuddered 
and  shrank.  Hugh  spared  her,  she  knew,  there  were 
things  he  would  not,  could  not,  describe;  but  gradually 
his  incoherent  narrative  built  up  for  her  a  picture  the 
more  awful  in  its  very  lack  of  form,  in  the  void  all 
round  it. 

"Sometimes,"  he  said,  as  he  stared  across  the  wide  ex- 
panse of  sodden  field  to  the  ridge  beyond,  where  against  the 
sky-line  the  trees  of  the  copse  were  etched  in  Indian  ink, 
"I  think  it's  all  a  nightmare,  that  I  have  dreamed  the  whole 
thing.  ...  To  be  here,  in  this  untainted  quiet,  under 
this  pure  sky,  with  you,  Aurelia,  it  makes  it  all  look 
incredible." 

Mrs.  Leonard  leaned  back  against  the  stone  wall  under 
which  they  had  found  a  convenient  dry  tree-trunk  on  which 
to  sit  and  eat  their  bread  and  dates.  She  said  nothing;  her 
eyes  followed  a  flight  of  birds  that  flew  low  across  the  pale 
horizon. 

"And  yet,"  Hugh  went  on,  "no  imagination,  even  in 
dreams,  could  have  created  anything  so  ugly  as  the  truth. 
I  went  out  without  any  illusions,  and  my  imagination  is  not 
very  strong,  but  I  hadn't  guessed  what  science  could  make 
of  killing.  People  here  talk  of  atrocities — modern  war  is 
an  atrocity.  And  yet,  because  people  won't  admit  the 
fact  of  evil,  the  suffering,  instead  of  creating  revolt, 
perpetuates  the  horror.  Those  who've  lost  relations  won't 
admit  that  the  cause  of  their  anguish  is  evil;  they  pretend 
it's  good.  So,  the  worse  the  suffering,  the  greater  the  hypoc- 
risy. .  .  .  And  besides  all  this  lying,  there's  a  positive 
delight  in  evil.  Yes,  Aurelia,  you  shake  your  head; 
but  there  is.  It's  not  only  that  the  war  has  happened. 
People,  lots  of  people,  are,  in  an  awful  way,  enjoying 
it.  They're  revelling  in  their  own  sensations  and  the 
sensations  of  their  friends.  ...  If  you  could  see  London 
now.  London's  appalling.  Our  London,  I  mean.  It's  enjoy- 
ing itself — it  really  is." 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  cried  Mrs.  Leonard.    "Hugh,  you  must  rot 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  345 

let  this  thing  distort  your  judgment.  I  sometimes  feel  mine 
is  going;  but  I  counted  on  you." 

"If  you'd  met  Myrtle  Toller,  all  in  black,  as  I  did  two 
days  ago,  you'd  agree  with  me,  Aurelia.  I  happened  to  see 
Herbert  before  he  died.  If  you  could  call  what  I  saw  a  hu- 
man being  at  all.  I  won't  try  to  tell  you  what  it  was  like. 
.  ,  .  You  say  London's  a  Calvary?  I  dare  say  it  is,  to  you, 
but  I  assure  you  there  are  thousands  of  so-called  civilised 
people  to  whom  it's  a  Colosseum.  Did  you  see  Sir  Anthony 
Toller's  letter  in  Thursday's  paper?  Well,  that's  what  I 
mean.  It's  obscene,  gladiatorial.  I  assure  you  it  makes  me 
sick.  I've  met  a  handful  of  men  who  were  fascinated 
by  shell  fire — men  who'd  been  in  it,  and  who  go  back 
because  they  can't  keep  away:  soldiers,  not  journalists. 
They're  exceptional.  But  London  is  full  of  such  people. 
I  can  understand  men  who  seize  the  chance  of  death  because 
they  find  life  intolerable,  but  to  do  it  vicariously,  as  Nigel 
and  his  crowd  do.  .  .  .  No.  London  seems  to  me  more  hide- 
ous than  France." 

Mrs.  Leonard  rose  to  her  feet. 

"Let's  go  on,"  she  said.  Hugh  tramped  behind  her,  as 
they  crossed  the  field  by  a  narrow  track.  When  they 
turned  on  to  the  road  again,  and  he  could  walk  by  her  side, 
he  went  on — 

"It's  very  strange,  how  these  things  affect  one  person- 
ally," he  said. 

Aurelia  glanced  at  him. 

"Yes,"  she  said  shortly. 

"I  had  convinced  myself,  you  know,"  he  said,  "that  I 
had  got  firmly  fixed  in  a  case-hardened  routine,  in  which 
there  was  no  room  for  feeling,  as  regards  things  that 
affected  me  personally.  Thought  was  the  only  thing  that 
mattered.  I  was  quite  hard,  or  so  I  imagined.  I  used 
even  after  you  came  back  from  Italy,  to  stick  pins  into  my- 
self now  and  then,  without  any  one  noticing  it,  just  to  ex- 
periment." 

Aurelia  glanced  at  him  and  gave  a  little  smile;  but  Hugh, 
absorbed  in  working  out  his  idea,  did  not  notice  it. 


346  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

"The  only  thing  I  felt  was  your  suffering.  That  mad- 
dened me.  I  felt  the  war  through  you.  But  now,  somehow, 
it's  all  come  down  upon  me." 

Aurelia  did  not  say  anything.  She  suddenly  felt  that 
she  could  not  trust  her  voice.  If  she  said  nothing,  Hugh, 
with  eyes  averted,  might  continue  to  think  her  calm;  if  she 
spoke  he  must  see  that  she  was  trembling — trembling  not 
because  of  what  he  said,  but  because  of  what  she  had  felt 
behind  it  all  morning,  what  had  looked  at  her  out  of  his  eyes, 
in  the  moment  when  she  had  met  them,  all  unknown  to  Hugh 
himself.  To  that  she  could  oppose  nothing  but  her  silence. 
Generally  it  was  she  who  talked,  she  who  directed  the  lines 
of  their  conversation  and  of  their  whole  intercourse;  but  to- 
day it  was  not  she  but  Hugh.  She  could  not  interrupt  him, 
far  less  distract  him  from  the  thing  he  was  going  to  say. 
Whether  she  wanted  so  to  distract  him  there  seemed  no  time 
to  ask. 

"All  this  horror,  blotting  out  the  world  of  thought,"  Hugh 
began  again,  "makes  one  feel  that  one's  own  personal  hap- 
piness is  the  only  thing  that's  left.  One  has  simply  got  to 
clutch  at  that.  It's  the  only  thing  there  is.  Truth  has  gone: 
civilisation  has  gone:  life  is  going." 

They  turned  out  of  the  road  again,  over  a  stile  and  so 
across  a  field.  On  the  top  of  the  field  over  which  the  nar- 
row path  led  them  climbing  steeply  up,  by  a  difficult  way, 
partly  stones,  partly  mud,  stood  a  little  group  of  trees.  Slen- 
der young  oaks  they  were,  with  straight  stems  that  gleamed 
like  pewter.  On  their  branches  a  few  brown  leaves  were 
still  fluttering,  while  the  rest  of  their  autumn  glory  lay 
black  and  rotten  on  the  ground.  Wide  acres  extended 
out  below  them,  with  low  stone  walls  and  shabby  hedges; 
across  the  misty  valley  bottom  brown  earth  sloped  up  to 
thicker  leafless  woods,  crowned  on  the  horizon  by  a 
vague  line  of  low  hills.  At  the  top  Aurelia  paused  invol- 
untarily, and  drew  a  long  sighing  breath.  As  she  paused 
Hugh  turned  to  her. 

"Aurelia!"  he  cried,  and  his  deep  voice  shook  on  her  name. 
"Happiness  for  me  has  only  one  meaning;  you  know  what 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  347 

that  is.  I'm  never  coming  back  to  this  again,  but  once  I 
must  say  it.  Is  it  all  gone,  what  you  once  felt?  Is  it  use- 
less what  I  feel?  For  I've  always  felt  it,  I  shall  always  feel 
it.  ...  I  failed  you  miserably,  I  know;  I  haven't  any  right 
to  ask  you  to  care.  But  I  love  you,  as  I  didn't  know  how  to 
love  you  then." 

Aurelia  said  nothing.  She  stood  by  him,  her  hands  clasped, 
her  eyes  on  the  dead  leaves  she  was  idly  stirring  with  her 
shoe.  Hugh  moved  a  little  nearer  and  caught  her  two  hands 
inside  his  own. 

"Aurelia!"  His  voice  was  so  low  it  was  almost  a  whis- 
per. 

At  that  she  raised  her  head,  and  for  a  moment  her  eyes 
looked  into  his,  and  for  Hugh  they  held  an  answer  that  filled 
his  own  with  sudden  tears.  He  raised  her  hands  to  his  lips 
and  covered  them  with  kisses. 

He  said  nothing,  but  was  still  holding  her  hands  when 
Aurelia  suddenly  raised  her  head. 

"Listen!"  she  said. 

Hugh  looked  up.  He  too  heard  the  sharp  sound  of  a  bi- 
cycle bell.  It  was  repeated,  and  turning  their  eyes  in  the 
direction  whence  it  came  they  saw,  coming  along  the  curving 
road  they  had  left  to  cross  the  field,  a  small  boy  riding  slowly 
along. 

" Shout  to  him,  Hugh ! "  cried  Aurelia.    " It's  from  Daphne." 

Hugh  took  off  his  hat,  and  waving  it,  shouted. 

The  boy  heard,  dismounted,  and  came  towards  them 
across  the  field,  with  the  orange  envelope  in  his  hand.  Hugh 
walked  down  to  take  it  from  him,  and  came  back  with  il 

Aurelia. 

"Yes,  it's  from  Daphne,"  she  said.  She  arrives^ at  half- 
past  four.  We've  just  time  to  go  down  to  the  station." 

Hugh  dismissed  the  boy  with  sixpence,  and  together 
walked  down  the  field  beyond  the  trees.    Neither  said  any- 
thing till  they  were  on  the  road  again. 

Then  Aurelia  turned  to  him. 

"We  must  wait,  Hugh,"  she  said.  "You  understand? 
Daphne  needs  me,  I  know." 


348  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

Hugh  took  the  hand  she  held  out  and  kissed  it  silently. 
She  said  "we;"  what  did  anything  else  matter?  He  did  not 
want  to  talk.  As  they  walked  along  the  road  together 
his  heart  overflowed  in  silent  happiness;  and  the  dreary 
station  where  they  waited  for  the  train,  sitting  side 
by  side  in  silence  on  a  chilly  bench,  was  for  him  the 
antechamber  of  Paradise.  He  thought  of  the  Christmas 
tree  he  had  sent  to  the  little  Emersons,  and  felt  that  no  child 
dancing  round  its  glow  could  have  a  heart  that  leaped  as  high 
as  his. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVEN 

CHRISTMAS  DAY  broke  sad  and  overclouded,  with  no 
light  in  the  sky,  no  colour  in  the  fields,  over  which  a  low 
mist  lay  that  thickened  by  midday  into  rain.    At  first 
it  was  a  soft  unobtrusive  rain,  but  soon  a  chill  wind  rose  which 
drove  it  against  the  cottage  windows.     It  slashed  against  the 
glass,  beat  on  the  roof  and  on  the  tiles  of  the  path,  and  ham- 
mered angrily  on  the  top  of  the  dustbin.    The  water-butt 
overflowed  and  ran  splashing  down  the  garden.    The  sound 
of  the  rain  filled  the  little  sitting-room,  louder  than  the  crackling 
of  the  wood  fire  or  the  rustle  of  Mrs.  Leonard's  papers,  as  she 
sat  busy  with  her  press-cutting  books.    Hugh  Infield  had  gone 
back  to  the  inn,  where  he  was  sleeping,  to  work;  and  Mrs. 
Leonard  had  settled  down  to  her  table  when  the  rain  made 
going  out  impossible.     She  might,  to  any  one  opening  the  door 
and  glancing  in,  have  appeared  to  be  occupied  with  her  usual 
absorbed  efficiency;  but  in  reality  her  mind  refused  to  con- 
centrate.    She  read  the  same  printed  slip  over  and  over  again, 
without  in  the  least  taking  in  what  it  said.    She  tried  to  seem 
busy  only  in  order  that,  if  Daphne  looked  up,  she  mighl 
see  in  her  eyes  any  of  the  questions  she  must  not  put  to  her. 
Her  heart  ached  with  them,  those  questions;  had  ached 
ceasingly  ever  since  Daphne  had  stepped  out  of  the 
so  pale  and  gentle-gentle  with  a  gentleness  that  was  i 
remote  and,  to  her  mother,  almost  unendurable, 
think  only  of  her.    Everything  else  had  been  driven  11 
background.     It  was  almost  with  a  sense  of  self-reproach  tl 
Aurelia  glanced  at  what  Hugh  had  said  to  her;  she  did  i 
than  glance  at  it.    That  must  wait.    Hugh  would  understand. 

349 


350  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

His  eyes,  as  they  met  hers  for  a  moment,  when  Daphne  on  the 
platform  had  turned  away  to  get  her  bag,  had  told  her  that  he 
did  understand,  as  far  as  a  man  in  love  could  understand.  Per- 
haps further;  but  she  had  no  time  now  to  think  of  that.  She 
could  think  only  of  her  daughter. 

Daphne  had  proffered  nothing.  She  held  aloof  with  an 
almost  fierce  reticence,  that  seemed  to  resent  any  suggestion  of 
tender  approach.  Mrs.  Leonard  looked  at  her,  as  she  sat  in  a 
position  unchanged  for  more  than  an  hour,  on  the  little  hard 
sofa  by  the  window,  out  of  reach  of  the  fire,  almost  as  if  she 
shrank  from  it,  as  she  shrank  from  human  kindness.  As  a 
small  child  she  had  hated  to  be  touched,  even  when  cut  fingers  or 
bumped  head  compelled  attention.  She  had  retained,  as  she 
grew  up,  an  undemonstrativeness  that  struck  strangers  as 
positively  harsh,  and  that  had  sometimes  caused  her  mother  to 
shed  secret  tears.  Happiness  had  wonderfully,  and  to  Aurelia 
most  touchingly,  thawed  her.  She  had  never  said  much;  but 
her  eyes  had  shone,  and  in  her  voice  something  had  sounded 
that  had  more  than  once  brought  to  her  mother's  eyes  tears  of 
a  very  different  quality  from  those  that  smarted  in  them  now. 
Daphne  sat  with  her  arms  extended  along  the  back  of  the  sofa, 
her  eyes  fixed  immovably  on  the  ground.  On  a  small  table 
beside  her  lay  her  half -emptied  coffee  cup  and  unlit  cigarette; 
two  or  three  letters  which  had  come  some  time  before,  unopened. 
Her  attitude  was  absolutely  passive.  It  was  difficult  to  believe 
that  she  was  thinking.  Mrs.  Leonard's  heart  contracted  with 
helpless  yearning  as  she  looked  at  her.  It  was  so  unlike 
Daphne,  this  dumb  inaction,  as  of  a  creature  too  deeply  wound- 
ed to  stir  or  utter  a  moan.  If  she  could  have  cried,  if  she 
could  say  anything,  her  mother  could  have  taken  her  in  her 
arms,  as  she  longed  to  do;  but  her  silence  was  a  wall  between 
them. 

It  was  a  wall,  a  wall,  as  Mrs.  Leonard  had  said  to  Hugh, 
of  glass,  behind  which  she  knew  an  intolerable  suffering.  She 
dared  not  try  to  penetrate  it,  dared  not  ask  what  had  happened. 
As  a  child — Mrs.  Leonard's  thoughts  went  back  persistently  to 
Daphne's  childhood — she  had  hardly  ever  cried.  Doctors  and 
dentists  had  said  that  this  control  of  hers  madeh  er  difficult 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  351 

as  a  patient,  for  one  did  not  know  how  much  she  was  hurt. 
Mrs.  Leonard  remembered  how,  as  a  child  of  seven,  she  had 
mourned  inconsolably  over  the  death  of  a  tiny  kitten;  mourned 
inconsolably  but  quite  quietly.  She  had  simply  sat,  staring 
at  her  toys  without  interest :  not  to  be  tempted  away  from  her 
grief  by  sweets  or  new  books  or  the  suggestion  of  a  visit  to  a 
circus:  furious  when  it  was  suggested  that  a  new  kitten  might 
take  the  place  of  the  old.  To  physical  pain  there  was  a  natural 
limit:  when  it  got  to  a  certain  point,  it  could  go  no  further;  it 
ceased  or  consciousness  ceased.  It  was  simple  and  finite. 
Moral  pain  was  not  like  that ;  it  went  on  and  on.  It  fed  itself  on 
every  complexity  of  your  nature.  The  more  you  felt  it,  the 
more  you  could  feel  it.  Daphne  was  without  the  dramatic 
instinct.  She  could  find  relief  neither  in  expression  nor  in  the 
vision  of  herself  as  suffering.  She  hid  her  pain,  not  because 
she  was  proud,  but  because  she  was  ashamed  of  it,  and  because 
her  whole  nature  was  absorbed  in  bearing  it.  Any  personal 
pain  might  perhaps  seem  trivial  at  a  time  when  the  whole  world 
was  racked  with  anguish;  but  to  Mrs.  Leonard  that  thought 
carried  no  consolation. 

With  an  effort  she  returned  to  her  papers.  Cuttings  could  at 
least  be  pasted  in,  though  not  read  with  any  intelligence  for 
their  meaning. 

"What  do  you  want  all  those  papers  for?"  Daphne  sud- 
denly broke  her  long  silence.  Her  tone  was  irritable,  almost 
peevish,  the  tone  of  some  one  with  a  vexing  toothache. 

Mrs.  Leonard  looked  up. 

"They're  material,"  she  said. 

'Material  for  what?  Are  you  going  to  write  something?" 
Her  accent  was  tinged  with  contempt. 

"Some  time,  yes.  But  anyhow,  one  wants  to  under- 
stand. " 

Daphne  gave  a  heavy  sigh. 

"What  is  there  to  understand?"  she  said.  "Isn't  it  all 
perfectly  hopeless?  What's  the  good  of  talking  or  thinking 
about  it?  If  one  were  a  man  one  could  go  out  and  get  killed. 
As  one  isn't " 

"It  is  very  difficult,"  said  Mrs.  Leonard.     "But  one  can't 


352  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

just  stop.  Beyond  all  this  there's  the  future.  We  have  got 
to  live,  even  now;  and  people  after  us.  This  has  happened 
partly  because  too  few  people  understood  and  cared,  because 
of  things  in  ourselves  we  wouldn't  realise.  If  it's  not  to  go  on 
happening,  time  after  time,  we  must  see  what  it  is,  why  it  is. 
And  if  one's  to  live  at  all,  one  must  be  aware. " 

"But  when  it's  all  so  awful,  wouldn't  it  be  better  not  to  be 
aware?" 

Mrs.  Leonard  laid  down  her  pen. 

"No,  no,  Daphne.  Not  to  be  aware  is  to  be  dead.  To  be 
truly  aware,  is  to  be  master  of  life. " 

Daphne  had  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands.  She  made  no 
answer.  She  might  not  have  heard.  For  a  long  time  she  stayed 
so,  without  moving  or  speaking.  Outside  the  rain  still  fell  with 
dreary  persistence,  and  the  early  darkness  descended.  Across 
the  drip,  drip,  there  came,  muffled,  the  sound  of  the  church 
bells,  ringing  for  an  afternoon  service.  At  last  they  ceased  and 
there  was  no  sound  save  the  rain  and  an  occasional  spurt  from 
the  fire,  whose  dim  red  glow  made  all  the  light  there  was  in  the 
room. 

Daphne  opened  her  eyes  and  sat  up.  Mrs.  Leonard's  pen 
had  stopped  some  time  before.  She  was  still  sitting  at  her  table, 
but  her  head  was  buried  in  her  hands.  Daphne  went  to  her, 
and  falling  on  her  knees  by  her  side,  drew  down  her  hands  and 
laid  her  own  over  them. 

"Mother,  darling,"  she  cried,  "what  is  it?  Do  you  mind 
so  much?" 

Mrs.  Leonard  looked  down  at  her  daughter  without  saying 
anything,  then  put  her  arms  round  her.  She  held  her  close. 
There  was  a  long  silence.  Daphne  looked  away  into  the  fire. 
At  last  she  said,  speaking  in  a  slow  even  voice,  almost  as  if 
addressing  herself — 

"I  can't  say  anything,  because  I  don't  understand.  .  .  . 
That's  what's  so  dreadful.  There's  a  sort  of  wall  of  darkness 
in  front  of  me,  and  I  just  stare  and  stare  at  it,  and  see  no  light. 
But  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  ...  It's  just  like  the  war.  It's 
happened,  and  I  didn't  understand  it,  don't  understand  it. 
Sometimes  I  think  that  if  I  could  understand  the  war  I  could 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  353 

understand  this.  Perhaps  there's  no  connection,  but  I  feel  as 
if  there  were.  Only  I  can't  see  it.  It's  all  mixed  and  mangled 
in  my  mind.  .  .  .  Sometimes  I  have  a  kind  of  horror  of  myself 
because  I  don't  feel  the  war  .  .  .  but  I  don't  seem  to  feel  any- 
thing at  all.  I'm  just  numb  all  over.  But  you,  oh,  mother, 
don't  feel  it  like  this!" 

Mrs.  Leonard  held  her  daughter  to  her,  and  very  gently 
kissed  her  hair.  She  felt  Daphne's  tears  falling  on  her  hands, 
and  her  own  fell  too. 

"I  know,  darling,"  she  murmured,  in  the  soft  deep  voice 
which  to  Daphne  in  her  childish  days  had  always  sounded 
something  like  the  music  of  the  big  conch  shell  that  kept  for  ever 
the  magic  of  the  surf.  "  But  you  will. " 

"It's  dreadful,"  murmured  Daphne,  "the  blind  egotism  of 
one.  I  always  imagined  people  about  forty  had  got  over  all 
this:  that  one  didn't  have  to  struggle  any  more,  then." 

"Ah,  struggle!"  said  Mrs.  Leonard,  smiling  faintly.  "It's 
the  condition  of  life.  One's  dead  when  one  doesn't.  One's 
dying  when  one  wants  not  to. " 

"Dead,"  murmured  Daphne,  as  if  the  word  had  a  kind  of 
fascination  for  her.  "That's  a  thing  that  puzzles  me  too.  .  .  . 
Jane  seems  to  me  so  strangely  calm,  I  almost  envy 
her." 

"Yes, "  said  Mrs.  Leonard  gently.  "But  to  accept  death,  not 
just  to  let  it  happen  to  you,  that  needs  courage  too.  It's  part 
of  the  struggle:  the  struggle,  I  mean,  to  see.  But  it  is  true 
that  death  is  the  least  wasteful  form  of  suffering,  because,  if 
you  can  accept  it  as  part  of  the  order  of  things,  and  continue 
to  love,  your  love  is  the  conquest  of  the  ideal  over  all  the  nar- 
rowing conditions  of  human  existence.  You  love  all  that  is 
imperishable  in  the  soul  that  has  become  part  of  yours. " 

Daphne  nodded. 

"That's  Jane,"  she  said.  "It's  wonderful,  the  way  she  can 
talk  of  Lionel.  But  all  the  time  one  feels  she's  got  for  ever  a 
Lionel  she  never  talks  about.  Could  she,  do  you  think,  have 
loved  him  like  that  if  he'd  lived?  " 

Mrs.  Leonard  looked  down  at  her  daughter.  In  the  dim 
firelight  she  could  only  just  see  her  face,  very  pale,  and  her  eyes, 


354  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

fixed  on  the  glowing  heat  with  an  expression  which  made  it 
hard  for  her  mother  to  speak  at  all. 

"If  her  love  was  real,  if  it  was  based  on  a  real  Lionel,  yes. 
But  to  love  something  small  and  pretend  it's  great,  that's  the  lie 
in  the  soul  that  kills  love  by  inches.  Love  itself  is  degraded 
by  a  passion  of  giving  that  is  blind;  it's  tarnished  in  its  very 
tissue "  Her  voice  died  away. 

Daphne  said  nothing.  She  seemed,  as  she  sat,  staring  into 
the  fire,  to  have  fallen  again  to  the  silent  immobility  from  which 
she  had  been  roused  by  her  mother's  emotion.  Mrs.  Leonard 
did  not  know  whether  she  had  heard  what  she  had  said;  she 
was  anyhow  now  re-absorbed  into  her  own  preoccupation. 
It  was  clear  enough  to  her  mother  that  nothing  final  had  hap- 
pened. Nigel  had  not  been  mentioned;  but  Daphne  wore 
his  ring  and  waited  with  a  tense  eagerness,  that  hurt  to 
see,  for  the  post  which  had  so  far  brought  no  letter  from 
him. 

The  door  opened,  letting  in  a  blinding  blaze  of  light.  It 
was  only  old  Esther  with  the  lamp  and  under  her  arm  more 
logs. 

"What  a  dull  fire  for  Christmas  Day,"  she  grumbled 
cheerfully.  "Here  are  some  nice  pine  faggots  for  you,  missy. 
Do  you  mind  how  you  always  used  to  tease  me  for  them  when 
you  was  a  little  thing?  .  .  .  But  it  don't  seem  to  be  Christmas 
Day,  anyhow  with  this  rain  and  nobody  at  home.  .  .  .  No, 
mum,  no  news  of  Ben.  But  I  hope  no  news  is  good  news,  as 
they  say." 

She  disappeared  again,  to  return  a  moment  later  with  a  large 
basket  in  her  hands. 

"This  has  just  come,  mum.  From  Mr.  Hugh.  It's  one  of 
his  jokes,  I  fancy.  Yes,  for  you,  missy.  Something  to  cheer 
you,  I  expect:  you're  not  looking  very  bright  either,  I  must 
say. "  She  deposited  the  small  hamper  on  the  ground.  "  Open 
it,  missy,  do." 

Daphne,  with  an  effort  for  Esther's  sake  at  a  smile,  got  up 
and  came  over  to  the  basket,  from  which  unmistakable  sounds 
were  proceeding.  It  was  only  loosely  tied  with  twine  and  soon 
undone.  A  small  kitten  sprang  out,  mewing  at  first;  but 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  355 

then  loudly  purring  as  Daphne  picked  it  up  and  rubbed  the 
little  ball  of  tawny  fluff  against  her  cheek. 

"Well!  I  never, "  said  Esther.  "Look,  mum,  it's  got  a  label 
round  its  neck." 

Daphne  examined  the  card. 

"Wang  the  Second  presents  the  Compliments  of  the  Season 
and  wishes  you  a  Merry  Christmas. " 

Mrs.  Leonard  looked  at  Daphne  and  saw  that  her  eyes 
were  overflowing  and  wetting  the  yellow  coat  of  the  little 
cat. 

"I  know,"  cried  old  Esther.  "It's  one  of  Mrs.  Clark's 
big  cat's;  it  had  kittens  a  little  time  ago,  but  I  thought  they 
were  all  drowned.  This  must  have  been  picked  up  some- 
where. Mrs.  Clark  never  did  drown  kittens  properly.  Look, 
you  can  see  its  neck's  been  tied  in.  Poor  little  mite:  it's 
happy  now." 

"Do  you  remember  our  old  Wang,  Esther?"  said  Mrs. 
Leonard,  as  Daphne  was  obviously  incapable  of  speech.  "I 
was  thinking  of  him  only  this  morning,  and  how  unhappy  poor 
Daphne  was  when  he  died. " 

Esther  did  remember,  and  entered  into  a  long  story  of  Wang 
the  First,  in  the  course  of  which  Daphne  got  up  and  left  the 
room.  Esther  shook  her  head  after  her,  as  she  closed  the 
door. 

"Poor  missy!"  she  murmured  tenderly.  "I'm  afraid  she's 
not  enjoying  her  Christmas  Day.  ...  I  fair  hate  that  young 
man  of  hers,  that  I  do. "  A  double  knock  on  the  door  inter- 
rupted her.  "Why,  there's  the  postman, "  she  said.  "I  didn't 
think  he  would  come  again.  It's  a  long  round,  and  he  has  to 
do  it  all  himself  these  days." 

She  moved  slowly  to  the  door,  coming  back  in  a  few  minutes 
with  letters  for  Mrs.  Leonard  and  a  small  parcel  for  Daphne, 
who  re-entered  the  room  at  the  same  moment,  Wang  the 
Second  perched  happily  on  her  shoulder.  Mrs.  Leonard  would 
have  known,  from  the  mingle  of  emotions  in  her  face,  that  it  was 
from  Nigel,  even  had  she  not  seen  his  neat  writing  on  the  out- 
side. 

"You  had  better  go  and  look  after  your  pudding,  Esther," 


356  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

said  she,  as  the  old  woman  lingered,  obviously  desirous  of  seeing 
what  the  package  contained.  "Mr.  Infield  will  be  here  at  six, 
you  know." 

Esther  hesitated;  but  as  Daphne  still  held  the  parcel  in  her 
hand,  almost  as  if  uncertain  whether  to  open  it  or  no,  she  un- 
willingly withdrew.  Mrs.  Leonard  turned  away  and  busied 
herself  with  her  letters. 

Daphne  stood  quite  still  by  the  table,  balancing  the  little 
box  in  her  hand  and  staring  at  the  clear  lettering  of  the  address 
as  if  trying  to  read  from  it  the  answer  to  a  riddle.  At  last  with 
slow  fingers  she  untied  the  string,  spending  an  infinity  of 
patience  over  each  careful  knot,  and  unwrapped  the  brown 
paper.  Under  it  lay  a  card  with  "A  Happy  Christmas"  in  the 
same  neat  writing:  that  was  all.  Daphne  turned  it  over. 
There  was  nothing  on  the  other  side.  Then  very  slowly,  she 
opened  the  little  brown  cardboard  box  and  took  out  of  the  tissue- 
paper  in  which  it  was  wrapped  round  a  long  chain  of  blue  and 
green  beads.  The  smooth  stones  slipped  between  her  unsteady 
fingers  and  dropped  to  the  table  with  a  noise  that  made  Mrs. 
Leonard  look  round. 

"How  pretty!"  she  cried.  "Is  that  from  Nigel,  Daphne?" 
She  brought  the  name  out  with  an  effort. 

"Yes,"  said  Daphne  in  a  dull  voice.  "Mrs.  Nugent  makes 
these  chains. " 

"  Mrs.  Nugent?  "  said  Mrs.  Leonard  a  little  vaguely.  "  She's 
the  lady  who  lives  at  Tenacre  and  has  such  a  disagreeable 
voice,  isn't  she?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Daphne  again,  holding  the  beads  in  one  hand 
and  letting  them  drop  between  her  fingers.  Wang,  attracted 
by  the  bright  moving  thing,  stretched  out  a  soft  paw  to  catch 
them;  but  Daphne  seemed  unaware  of  him.  The  door  opened 
and  Hugh  Infield  came  in.  He  glanced  from  Mrs.  Leonard  to 
Daphne. 

"I  hope  Wang  the  Second  won't  be  a  nuisance  to  you," 
he  said.  "  I  met  some  boys  trying  to  drown  him,  and  it  seemed 
such  a  shame. " 

Daphne  moved  towards  the  door,  the  beads  still  in  her  hand, 
and  disappeared.  Hugh  came  towards  the  fire. 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  357 

Mrs.  Leonard  looked  up.  "Oh  Hugh!"  she  cried.  "It's 
terrible!" 

Hugh  looked  at  the  door. 

"I  can't  do  anything  for  her;  I  am  afraid,  really,  of  saying 
anything.  ...  I  don't  know  where  she  is." 

Hugh  stood  looking  down  at  Mrs.  Leonard's  averted  head. 

"Did  you  see  her  expression  when  you  came  in?" 

Hugh  nodded. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "I've  seen  that  look  on  the  faces  of  Bel- 
gian refugees  at  Ostend.  Their  faces  haunt  one;  they're  quite 
blank,  as  if  so  much  had  passed  over  them  that  they  couldn't 
feel  at  all. " 

Hugh's  tone  was  very  gentle.  Aurelia,  without  turning, 
held  out  her  hand.  He  took  it  in  his  own  and  clasped  it  silently. 

"You  might  take  her  out  for  a  walk  to-morrow,  Hugh;  she 
can't  talk  to  me,  but  she  might  to  you.  If  she  could  talk  it 
might  help  her." 

Hugh  merely  pressed  her  hand.  The.i  after  a  pause  he 
said — 

"  I  have  to  go  up  to  town  on  Monday." 

"Oh!"  cried  Mrs.  Leonard,  and  in  her  tone  there  was  some- 
thing almost  of  gladness.  "Then  you  can  look  after  her.  She 
has  to  go  then." 

Hugh  smiled  a  little  ruefully.  Since  last  night  Aurelia  had 
been  carried  off,  as  in  some  magician's  cloak,  and  he  was  left 
face  to  face  with  Mrs.  Leonard.  But  the  momentary  resent- 
ment he  had  felt  against  her  daughter  had  vanished  at  the  sight 
of  Daphne's  face,  as  she  got  out  of  the  train,  and  there  was  now 
nothing  of  it  left.  He  could  wait. 

Esther  came  in  to  lay  the  cloth;  and  a  few  moments  after- 
wards Daphne  herself  came  in.  She  had  changed  her  dress, 
and  now  wore  a  white  muslin  that,  even  while  it  accentuated 
her  look  of  youthfulness,  brought  out  her  likeness  to  her  mother, 
also  in  white.  But  it  was  wrong,  Hugh  felt  as  he  looked  at  her, 
that  she  should  be  like  her  mother  in  just  this  way;  that  there 
should  be  already  at  work  that  refining  pain  that  made  Aurelia's 
face  so  wonderful.  Aurelia  looked  at  her  too,  and  saw  that 
she  had  not  put  on  the  bead  necklace. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-EIGHT 

1L  TEXT  morning  the  rain  still  fell;  but  gradually  as  the  wind 
1^^  'dropped  it  diminished  in  force,  became  a  drizzle,  and 
-i-  ^  finally  ceased  altogether,  although  the  watery  sky  held 
out  no  hope  of  more  than  a  temporary  lull.  After  lunch,  there- 
fore, Hugh  readily  fell  in  with  Mrs.  Leonard's  suggestion  that  he 
and  Daphne  should  go  for  a  walk,  while  she  wrote  letters.  Hugh 
disbelieved  in  the  letters,  but  did  not  say  so.  They  set  off  in 
silence  at  a  round  pace,  up  the  long  road  that  stretched  ahead  of 
them  like  a  curling  ribbon,  up  the  gradually  ascending  slope 
of  the  hillside,  between  the  water-logged  fields,  until  it  lost  itself 
among  the  trees  of  the  wood  that  crowned  the  height.  The 
muddy  road  was  dreary;  there  was  no  hint  of  colour  anywhere; 
yet  the  leafless  trees  against  the  pallid  sky  were  beautiful  in 
their  quiet.  Over  the  whole  countryside  there  seemed  to  rest 
a  brooding  melancholy  that  tinged  with  pain  the  patient  resigna- 
tion in  which  the  earth  mutely  endured  the  slow  silence  of  the 
winter. 

Hugh  glanced  at  Daphne.  Her  profile,  framed  in  a  close- 
knitted  cap  of  yellow  wool,  was  grave  and  set.  She  was  like 
one  of  the  figures  on  the  Parthenon  frieze,  he  thought,  with  her 
straight  athletic  frame  and  air  of  absorbed  self-possession.  It 
was  not  really  surprising  that  people  generally  thought  of 
her  as  calm,  even  as  apathetic.  Her  heavy  eyelids  and  the 
firm  closure  of  her  full  lips  gave  to  her  face  a  kind  of  strong 
immobility;  and,  after  all,  the  ordinary  acquaintance  had  prob- 
ably never  seen  what  she  looked  like  when  her  eyes  suddenly 
opened  wide  and  her  lips  parted,  how  all  her  hid  resemblance 
to  her  mother  then  looked  out  from  under  her  lifted  lids.  The 

358 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  359 

eyelids  were  her  father's;  the  eyes  her  mother's  own.  At 
present  she  was  all  eyelids;  of  her  eyes,  fastened  on  the  muddy 
ground,  he  caught  no  glimpse. 

Gradually  they  climbed  up  to  the  top  of  the  ridge,  and  after 
passing  through  the  trees  and  crossing  a  field  whose  heavy 
clay  clogged  their  feet,  struck  a  hard  high  road,  with  telegraph 
posts  along  it. 

"This  is  best  for  walking  in  this  weather,"  said  Hugh, 
apologetically. 

Daphne  assented.  There  was  another  long  period  in  which 
they  walked  on  in  silence. 

"Christmas  is  over;  how  strange!"  said  Daphne.  "Last 
Christmas  Eve  I  was  walking  with  Gervase  O'Connor." 

"Poor  Jimmy!"  said  Hugh.  "I'm  not  sure  that  he's  not 
well  out  of  all  this. " 

"Hugh" — Daphne  had  turned  quickly  to  him,  and  her  voice 
had  a  new  accent — "why  did  he  do  it?  " 

Hugh  was  lighting  his  pipe,  and  did  not  at  once  reply. 

"Things  got  too  much  for  him,  I  fancy,"  he  said.  "Jimmy 
wasn't  well  built  for  life,  you  see.  He  broke  to  it  instead 
of  bending.  Always,  when  he  was  a  little  fellow,  when  he 
came  up  against  anything  he  couldn't  manage  at  once,  or 
didn't  like,  he  wanted  to  smash  it.  I  remember  him  as  a  tiny 
boy  cutting  his  hand  frightfully  on  a  window-pane;  he  went 
clean  through  it  trying  to  get  something  on  the  other  side.  .  .  . 
If  life  was  not  going  to  be  what  he  wanted,  he  wouldn't  have  it 
at  all. "  He  paused;  then,  as  Daphne  made  no  comment,  went 
on  again.  "And,  under  that  queer,  brutal  manner,  Jimmy 
was  an  idealist.  He  wouldn't  have  admitted  it,  but  he 
was.  He  couldn't  bear  the  dullness  and  indifference  of  other 
people.  The  way  they  didn't  feel  maddened  him.  He  felt, 
appallingly " 

"And  one  shouldn't,  do  you  think?" 

He  glanced  at  her,  but  Daphne  had  not  turned  her  head, 
her  eyes  were  still  on  the  road. 

"Not  unless  one's  pretty  tough.  .  .  .  Most  people  don't 
know  what  to  do  with  Jimmy's  kind  of  feeling.  His  mother — 
did  you  ever  meet  Lady  Flamborough?  a  lovely  woman,  made 


360  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

of  glass — she  thought  him  mad,  I  fancy."  He  paused.  "Do 
you  remember  your  father,  Daphne?" 

"My  father?  No,  not  really.  I  have  a  sort  of  dim  vision 
of  some  one  beautiful,  in  a  uniform,  with  a  cleft  chin,  who  always 
smelt  very  nice.  That's  all.  Why?" 

"He  would  have  thought  Jimmy  stark  mad." 

"Nigel  does."  It  was  only  a  murmur.  Hugh  was  not 
sure  whether  she  were  speaking  to  him  or  to  herself.  He  said 
nothing.  After  a  pause,  Daphne  began  again. 

"What  made  you  think  of  my  father?" 

She  had  turned  her  head  and  Hugh  met  her  eyes.  Yes, 
they  were  Aurelia's  eyes,  indeed;  with  fire  behind  their  clearness, 
undefeated  life  behind  their  pain.  They  held  him  until  Daphne 
with  a  little  smile,  a  smile  that  hurt  Hugh  even  while  it  blessed 
him,  turned  away  again,  crying — 

"Oh,  yes.  I  know.  ...  I  have  been  a  mole;  but  I'm 
learning  things  now.  More  than  I  can  take  in.  ...  If  only 
they  were  all  as  good  as  this!" 

Hugh  held  out  a  large  hand  and  held  hers  in  it  for  a  minute, 
during  which  they  walked  on.  Then  he  cleared  his  throat,  over 
a  gap  which  covered  more  things  than  either  could  have  touched 
upon,  and  said — 

"He  was  the  sort  of  person  about  whom  no  one  ought  to 
have  felt,  or  if  you  had  been  so  unlucky  as  to  begin — and  he  had 
an  abominable  trick  of  making  people  begin — the  only  thing 
to  do  was  to  stop." 

"But — she  didn't?"  said  Daphne,  as  he  paused. 

"No.     She  didn't." 

For  a  long  time  no  more  was  said.  They  walked  on,  each 
following  their  own  train  of  thought.  Hugh  travelled  back 
into  the  past,  and  felt  again  the  intolerable  futility  of  rage 
with  which  he  had  looked  on  at  the  Leonard  household;  had 
seen  Aurelia  uselessly  suffering,  and  been  powerless  to  help, 
the  more  powerless  because  of  the  pride  in  her  which  forbade  the 
slightest  suggestion  on  the  part  of  any  one,  however  intimate, 
that  she  had  anything  to  suffer  or  conceal.  It  was  long  since 
he  had  dared  to  look  back  in  any  detail  at  a  time  which  was,  in 
retrospect,  so  mixed  up  with  his  sense  of  personal  failure,  but 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  361 

now  that  failure  was  to  be  so  gloriously,  so  still  incredibly, 
redeemed  and  forgotten,  he  could  do  so.  He  recalled  his  first 
meeting  with  Aurelia,  not  the  first  time  he  had  seen  her,  but 
the  first  on  which  she  had  seen  him,  on  which  he  had  taken 
her  hand  and  spoken  to  her — a  dinner-party  to  which  she  had 
come  without  her  husband — and  felt  again  the  rage  that  had 
risen  in  his  throat  as  he  listened  to  her  apologies  for  Colonel 
Leonard's  absence.  No  one  wanted  Colonel  Leonard.  Of 
that  he  was  sure  even  then.  But  Aurelia's  manner  allowed  no 
hint  of  such  a  feeling,  no  suspicion  that  the  alleged  excuses 
were  not  to  be  taken  at  their  face  value.  Her  repudiation  of 
complicity  created  a  sort  of  solitude  round  her.  Hugh  had 
guessed  it  then.  He  was  to  learn  it  fully  later,  when,  as  the 
slow  achievement  of  patient  insistence,  he  forced  his  friend- 
ship upon  her.  Every  one  was  held  at  arm's  length,  because 
no  one  might  know  the  secret  of  her  unhappiness  and  her 
shame.  To  the  very  last,  the  pretence  was  maintained  between 
them  that  Colonel  Leonard  was  all  he  should  be  as  a  husband. 
His  absence  was  never  taken  for  granted.  He  was  always  ex- 
pected, though  he  never  came.  There  was  always  some  good 
particular  reason  to  cover  each  instance  of  general  neglect 
and  faithlessness.  Any  invitation  to  her  without  him  met 
with  invariable  polite  refusal. 

"Why  not?"  said  Daphne. 

Hugh  started.  He  had  to  hesitate  a  moment  before  he  could 
recall  the  statement  which  had  provoked  her  query.  In  Daph- 
ne's face,  as  she  looked  at  him,  there  was  an  expression  that 
made  him  for  an  instant  forget  his  own  problem  to  think  of 
hers,  made  him  ask  whither  her  thoughts  had  led  her.  For  she 
had  reached  something,  he  felt,  by  a  path  of  her  own,  quite 
different  from  his;  a  goal  or  perhaps  only  a  barrier.  He  did  not 
know. 

"Why  not?"  he  echoed.  It  was  a  question  he  had  put  to 
himself  a  thousand  times.  The  answer  had  varied  because — 
he  saw  it  now — it  was  never  the  true  answer,  the  one  he  gave. 
Behind  all  his  subterfuges,  all  his  hopes,  the  true  answer  lay; 
and  he  had  known  it  always,  though  he  would  not  see  it. 
Now,  to  meet  Daphne's  eyes,  no  answer  but  the  true  one  would  do. 


362  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

"She  was  in  love  with  him,"  he  said. 

Daphne  looked  at  him  still,  as  if  the  force  and  relevance 
of  his  words  were  only  penetrating  slowly  to  her  mind. 

"She  was  in  love  with  him,"  she  murmured.  "Oh!" 
It  was  almost  a  wail,  though  so  soft.  "She  went  on  being 
in  love  with  him  .  .  .  through  everything?  Even  after  she 
knew  what  he  was?  " 

Hugh  nodded.     "She  went  on,  giving  and  giving." 

"And  he?" 

Hugh  laughed  harshly. 

"He  didn't  even  notice  it." 

Daphne  looked  at  him  again,  with  a  kind  of  horror  grow- 
ing in  her  face,  the  expression  Hugh  had  seen  her  wear  when 
he  came  in  last  night  and  found  her  holding  the  bead  necklace 
in  her  fingers. 

"But  she  did  finally  leave  him?" 

"Yes.    At  last  she  did.     But  years  and  years  too  late." 

"Too  late  for  her?" 

"No,"  said  Hugh  surprisingly.     "Too  late  for  him." 

"Too  late— for  him?" 

Hugh  nodded.  It  excited  him,  his  discovery — for  it  was 
a  discovery,  he  had  never  thought  of  it  quite  in  this  way  be- 
fore— and  he  was  eager  to  work  it  out. 

"She  sacrificed  herself,  and  in  a  kind  of  way,  him  too, 
to  her  desire  to  sacrifice.  His  only  chance — if  he  had 
one  at  all — was  for  her  to  have  turned  and  rent  him. 
She  couldn't  do  it.  Because  it  would  have  been  something 
for  herself " 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Daphne.  "  Do  you  think  he  had  a  chance? 
I  mean — something  might  have  happened  to  him,  if  she'd 
left  him  earlier?" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Hugh  vaguely.  He  was  not  really  much 
interested  in  Colonel  Leonard's  chances,  nor  did  it  occur 
to  him  what  interest  they  might  have  for  Daphne.  He 
had  gone  back  to  his  own  part  in  the  tangle,  and  was  ask- 
ing himself  whether  what  he  had  said  might  not  seem  to  give 
Daphne  an  unjust  picture  of  her  mother,  because  of  what 
he  had  left  out. 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  363 

"There's  something  I  ought  to  tell  you,  I  think,"  he  said. 
"I  don't  suppose  your  mother's  ever  said  anything  about 
it?" 

Daphne  gave  a  slight  start.  She  seemed  to  recall  herself 
to  him  with  an  effort. 

"Mother's  never  really  told  me  anything  about  it  at  all. 
I  knew  she  had  left  my  father  when  I  was  about  seven 
or  eight,  and  that  he  had  been  killed  soon  after;  that's 
all.  I  knew  she'd  been  dreadfully  unhappy.  I  never 
wanted  to  know  about  him.  He  must  have  been  hor- 
rible." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Hugh,  with  his  sense  of  justice.  "Not 
horrible.  Horrible  for  her.  An  impossible  husband — 
weak  and  sentimental  and  untruthful  and  petty;  blind 
to  all  the  things  she  cared  for;  a  promiscuous  animal. 
But  according  to  his  own  standard  he  wasn't  horrible 
at  all.  I  hated  him,  but  most  people  would  have  thought 
he  was  a  man,  while  I  was — I  don't  know  what.  And  I 
don't  think  he'd  have  failed  as  I  did — through  sheer 
cowardice." 

Daphne  only  looked  at  him,  saying  nothing.  But  Hugh, 
having  begun,  meant  to  go  on. 

"I  must  tell  you,"  he  said.  "It  got  worse  and  worse; 
her  misery  and  the  shame  of  it.  ...  I  used  to  tell  her  she 
ought  to  go.  I  wanted  her,  of  course,  to  go  with  me.  .  .  . 
At  last  there  came  a  day  when  she  said  she  would.  Some- 
thing particularly  painful — I  needn't  tell  you  what  it 
was — had  happened,  and  she  felt  suddenly  the  sick  dis- 
honour of  it  all,  and  turned  to  me.  I  went  home,  sing- 
ing. But  in  the  night  I  went  cold  with  fear.  I  felt  I  wasn't 
good  enough  for  her;  not  strong  enough;  that  I  should  make 
her  wretched;  that  I  couldn't  carry  it  through.  I  was 
only  twenty-nine  then — not  that  that's  any  excuse.  All 
next  day  I  went  about  in  an  agony,  and  didn't  go  to 
see  her.  Then  I  suddenly  decided  I  must  go  away  and 
think  it  all  out.  I  went  down  to  Cornwall  for  a  week. 
Of  course,  I  couldn't  think.  I  came  back,  in  the  same 
state.  The  day  after  I  got  back  I  was  just  starting  out 


364  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

for  her  house,  because  I  thought  to  see  her  would  drive  these 
clouds  away,  when  I  got  a  letter  from  her,  saying  she 
had  gone — alone.  She  didn't  tell  me  where.  I  was 
stunned.  Stunned  by  myself,  by  my  own  ghastly  failure. 
I  just  sat  and  looked  at  it,  and  it  turned  me  to  stone. 
I  couldn't  do  anything.  Days  passed,  I  don't  know 
how.  I  made  no  effort  to  find  her,  I  couldn't  have 
written,  couldn't  have  spoken.  I  had  been  right  about 
myself;  I  wasn't  good  enough.  She  had  seen  it  too. 
...  I  nearly  killed  myself,  but  I  simply  hadn't  the 
energy." 

Hugh's  voice  died  away.  He  walked  on  quickly,  staring 
in  front  of  him.  He  had  forgotten  Daphne;  he  was  only  think- 
ing of  himself.  For  a  moment  he  had  even  forgotten  the 
present;  everything  was  submerged,  and  he  was  swept  away 
again  on  the  bitter  tide  of  self -contempt  in  which  he  had  so 
long  been  steeped  to  the  lips. 

It  had  begun  to  rain  again,  softly  and  silently,  but  he 
did  not  feel  it,  was  aware  of  nothing  until  looking  up  he  found 
his  spectacles  dimmed  by  the  heavy  drops,  and  paused 
to  wipe  them  and  turn  down  the  brim  of  his  hat  to 
keep  them  dry.  As  he  paused  he  looked  at  Daphne. 
They  were  passing  a  gate,  and  with  a  sudden  movement  she 
turned  from  him,  left  the  road  and  went  and  stood  against 
the  gate,  with  her  back  to  him.  She  had  said  nothing; 
but  Hugh,  awake  again,  saw  from  the  heaving  of  her  shoul- 
ders that  she  was  sobbing.  She  dropped  her  head  upon  her 
arms  to  hide  it,  but  he  knew  that  tears  were  running  down 
her  cheeks. 

He  stood  looking  at  her,  helpless  and  cursing  his  own 
egotism  and  folly.  Aurelia  had  asked  him  to  take  Daphne 
out  for  a  walk  in  order  that  she  might  talk  to  him,  and  he 
had  forgotten  all  about  her,  and  talked  ceaselessly,  stu- 
pidly about  himself.  Why  he  should  have  made  her  cry  he 
did  not  know;  but  perhaps,  poor  child,  it  was  better 
for  her  to  cry,  no  matter  over  what,  than  to  endure 
in  silence  her  dry,  speechless  misery.  At  last  she  looked  up, 
her  eyes  red. 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  365 

"Sorry,  Hugh,"  she  said.  "I  am  an  ass.  Don't  take  any 
notice  of  me " 

"It's  me,"  he  murmured.     "I'm  a  selfish  brute." 

Daphne  gave  a  watery  smile. 

"Oh,  no,  Hugh.  You've  helped  me.  Oh,  yes.  Yes,  you 
have.  Really.  .  .  .  And  don't  think  I  don't  care.  About 
you  and  mother,  I  mean.  If  only  that  can  come  out  right,  if 
she  can  be  happy,  and  you.  That's  something.  Sometimes  there 
seems  to  be  nothing  but  misery.  And  one's  just  lost  in  it  all." 

Hugh  did  not  venture  to  say  anything,  for  fear  of  making 
her  cry  again;  and  under  the  darkening  sky,  from  which  the 
rain  now  poured  down  steadily  and  dully,  they  made  their 
way  back  to  the  cottage. 

Aurelia  asked  no  questions  about  the  walk.  After  sup- 
per, as  they  sat  round  the  fire,  she  took  down  a  book,  and 
having  turned  over  the  leaves  for  some  time,  began  to  read 
aloud  to  them.  Daphne  lay  on  the  settee  by  the  window,  her 
face  shielded  by  her  hands.  Hugh  glanced  at  her  from  time 
to  time.  Her  posture  never  changed,  she  gave  no  sign  to 
show  whether  she  were  listening  or  no,  but  he  thought  that 
she  heard.  He  himself  sat  on  a  low  chair  at  one  side  of  the 
fire,  from  which  he  could  watch  Aurelia,  who  sat  opposite 
to  him,  as  she  read.  His  ears  were  filled  with  the  music  of 
her  voice,  his  eyes  with  the  beauty  of  her  firelit  face.  He 
was  happy.  For  the  moment  he  asked  no  more,  than 
thus  to  sit  in  silence,  listening  to  and  looking  at  Au- 
relia. Her  mind,  he  feared,  was  far  away  from  him; 
but  some  part  of  her  was  aware  of  his  feeling  and  ad- 
mitted it,  and  for  the  present  that  was  enough.  He 
could  have  wished  the  evening  might  have  lasted  for  ever; 
that  nothing  should  happen  to  change  or  mar  the  tranquillity 
on  which  he  floated. 

Aurelia's  voice  deepened  slightly;  she  was  coming  to  the 
end  of  what  she  read.  The  words  were  wonderful,  and  as 
she  read  them  they  sank  into  the  mind. 

"Oh!  yet  a  few  short  years  of  useful  life, 
And  all  will  be  complete,  thy  race  be  run, 
Thy  monument  of  glory  will  be  raised; 


366  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

Then,  though  (too  weak  to  tread  the  ways  of  truth) 

This  age  fall  back  to  old  idolatry, 

Though  men  return  to  servitude  as  fast 

As  the  tide  ebbs,  to  ignominy  and  shame 

By  nations  sink  together,  we  shall  still 

Find  solace — knowing  what  we  have  learnt  to  know, 

Rich  in  true  happiness  if  allowed  to  be 

Faithful  alike  in  forwarding  a  day 

Of  firmer  trust,  joint  labourers  in  the  work 

(Should  Providence  such  grace  to  us  vouchsafe) 

Of  their  deliverance,  surely  yet  to  come. 

Prophets  of  nature,  we  to  them  will  speak 

A  lasting  inspiration,  sanctified 

By  reason,  blest  by  faith:  what  we  have  loved 

Others  will  love,  and  we  will  teach  them  how; 

Instruct  them  how  the  mind  of  man  becomes 

A  thousand  times  more  beautiful  than  the  earth 

On  which  he  dwells,  above  this  frame  of  things 

(Which,  'mid  all  revolution  in  the  hopes 

And  fears  of  men,  doth  still  remain  unchanged) 

In  beauty  exalted,  as  is  it  itself 

Of  quality  and  fabric  more  divine.' 

Aurelia  closed  the  book.  For  a  moment  there  was  silence. 
Then  Daphne  said,  her  hands  still  over  her  eyes — 

"Too  weak  to  tread  the  ways  of  truth?" 

Aurelia  looked  up. 

"Yes,  "she  said. 

Daphne  got  up  and  moved  towards  the  door.  "Good- 
night, "  she  murmured,  and  was  gone. 

Aurelia  stared  into  the  fire  for  a  moment.     Then  she  said — 

"Will  you  go  up  to  town  with  her,  Hugh?" 

"To-morrow  morning?  Yes.  I  have  to  go  to  the  War 
Office."  He  paused.  " Wouldn't  she  rather  be  alone? " 

Aurelia  sighed. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "But  there's  a  kind  of  comfort  to  me  in 
thinking  you'll  be  with  her." 

Hugh  got  up. 

"I  may  have  to  go  back  to  France  almost  at  once,"  he  said. 

Aurelia  did  not  look  up,  nor  say  anything.  And  with  no 
more  than  a  look  at  her,  Hugh,  murmuring  good-night  at  the 
door,  went  out  into  the  mild  rainy  night. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-NINE 

BETWEEN  Hugh  and  Aurelia  no  more  was  said.  Hugh 
departed  on  Monday  morning,  by  the  early  train,  on 
which  Daphne  insisted,  with  a  long  handshake  and  a  long 
silent  look  into  Aurelia's  eyes;  that  was  all.  But  this  tacit 
postponement  did  not  distress  him;  on  the  contrary,  it  exactly 
suited  his  mood.  He  felt  no  resentment  of  Aurelia's  absorp- 
tion in  Daphne,  no  jealousy  of  a  devotion  that  might  have 
seemed  to  shut  him  out.  It  did  not  shut  him  out,  because  he 
shared  it.  Daphne  had  always  been  there,  always  been  part 
of  Aurelia,  and  a  part  of  her  he  loved.  Nor  could  Daphne's 
suffering  impair  his  own  happiness,  though  he  felt  it.  If  he 
said  nothing  to  her  during  their  long  journey  it  was  because 
there  was  nothing  to  say;  she  was  in  a  situation  in  which  no  one 
could  help  her.  It  was  no  use  to  wonder  what  was  going  to 
happen;  probably  she  did  not  know  herself.  But  as  he  looked 
at  her  stern  young  face,  as  she  sat  in  her  corner,  staring  before 
her,  seeing  nothing,  hearing  nothing,  as  oblivious  of  him  as  of 
the  unopened  newspaper  on  her  lap,  Hugh  thought  she  did 
know.  Some  change,  too  subtle  to  admit  of  his  definition, 
had  come  over  her  since  her  arrival  at  Wending  End.  Despair 
still  sat  behind  her  eyes,  but  her  mouth  was  set  in  a  line  that 
did  not  suggest  defeat. 

The  cold,  slow  train  stopped  everywhere,  between  as  well 
as  at  each  station,  gathering  delay  as  it  crawled  along.  The 
compartment  was  soon  crowded  beyond  its  alleged  capacity 
by  people  enlarged  by  damp  mackintoshes  and  cloaks,  and 
encumbered  with  unmanageable  hand  luggage  which  most 
of  them  seemed  to  prefer  to  hold  on  their  knees.  The  journey 

307 


368  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

was  long,  though  the  distance  from  Wending  End  to  London 
was  not  more  than  forty  miles;  and  Hugh  had  to  stand  for  nearly 
half  of  it.  He  did  not  mind.  The  time  passed  for  him  in  a 
happy  dream.  He  was  almost  sorry  when  they  at  last  reached 
Paddington,  more  than  half-an-hour  late.  Hours,  even  days  of 
solitary  reflection,  were  insufficient  to  enable  him  to  take  in 
what  had  happened.  He  still  moved  in  a  haze  of  felicity,  and 
hardly  wanted  to  reduce  it  to  terms.  That  he  had  left  Aurelia 
without  anything  having  been,  in  any  ordinary  sense,  settled 
between  them,  enhanced  rather  than  limited  his  satisfaction. 
He  almost  wanted  to  get  away  from  her  that  he  might  unin- 
terruptedly contemplate  what  had  passed.  He  did  not  desire 
to  hurry  on  to  the  next  stage,  which  hung,  dazzling,  before  his 
imagination,  with  a  radiance  almost  too  bright  to  bear  looking 
at.  What  was  given  was  so  beautiful,  so  astonishing,  that  to 
leave  it  behind  would  have  seemed  an  ungrateful  prodigality. 
He  told  himself  that  he  was  like  the  starving  man  who  dare 
not  take,  after  prolonged  abstinence,  more  than  a  glass  of  water, 
who  knows  that  his  senses,  perturbed  by  the  mere  sight  of  food, 
cannot  assimilate  more  than  a  very  little  at  a  time.  That  the 
table  is  spread  is,  for  him,  feasting  enough.  But  though  this 
analogy  satisfied  Hugh,  it  was  really  far  from  complete  or  per- 
fect. His  condition  was  not  that  of  the  simply  hungry  man,  who 
refrains  through  wisdom;  it  was  rather,  following  his  own  meta- 
phor, that  of  the  dyspeptic,  for  years  on  a  peculiar  diet,  who 
does  not  know  that  restriction  has  affected  his  organs,  and  that 
his  abstention  from  food,  for  so  long  denied  him,  is  due  not  sim- 
ply to  caution  but  to  something  more  profound;  to  an  atrophy 
of  disused  functions ;  an  incapacity  to  digest  the  dish  over  which 
he  gloats  in  imagination.  His  present  happiness  and  his  atti- 
tude towards  it  were  alike  coloured  and  conditioned  by  the 
circumstances  of  his  previous  relations  to  Aurelia.  Nearly 
fifteen  years  had  passed  since  the  failure  at  the  test  of  action 
which  had  marred  his  life,  and  in  those  years  he  had  accepted 
the  conclusion  that  any  feeling  for  a  man  who  had  collapsed  as 
he  had  done  was  inconceivable,  above  all  on  the  part  of  a 
creature  like  Aurelia.  His  love  for  her  had  grown  and  expanded 
in  the  dark  into  a  plant  that,  tall  and  strong  as  it  was,  bore  the 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  369 

marks  of  that  condition.  In  his  passion  of  self-contempt  he 
had  removed  Aurelia  altogether  from  any  criticism.  By  his 
own  fault  entirely  he  had  lost  her;  he  had  seen  and  bowed  his 
head  with  a  humiliation  that  forbade  any  further  effort,  any 
hope.  She  had  disappeared  from  the  life  of  day  to  day,  only 
to  rule  more  absolutely  the  world  of  his  thoughts.  Aurelia,  as 
he  met  her  at  long  intervals  in  the  world,  was  one  person; 
Aurelia  as  she  existed,  transcendent,  adorable,  unapproachable, 
in  the  solitude  of  his  heart,  another,  an  unique  being,  to  whom 
no  one  else  had  access,  not  even  Hugh  himself  in  his  habit  as  he 
moved.  For  years  he  had  been  in  love  with  an  idea  and  lived 
his  personal  life  in  a  world  of  his  own,  entered  by  no  human 
being,  over  which  that  idea  held  sway.  This  division  of  his 
inner  life  made  Hugh,  by  nature  shy,  a  solitary  and  apparently 
an  indifferent  looker-on  at  life.  He  had  numbers  of  strange 
friends,  scattered  about  the  globe,  in  remote  and  generally 
undistinguished  positions,  who  turned  to  him  in  any  kind  of 
trouble,  shared  with  him  their  sorrows  and  their  joys,  to  whose 
homes  he  played  fairy  godfather,  over  whose  fortunes  he 
watched  with  a  kind  of  humorous  tenderness.  They  were 
devoted  to  him,  these  friends;  but  though  he  knew  all  their 
affairs,  they  knew  little  or  nothing  of  his.  Even  less  was  he 
known  to  the  men  and  women  of  the  London  set  to  which 
he  nominally  belonged;  they  thought  of  him  as  cynical  and 
pessimistic,  a  realist  who  had  got  beyond  the  illusions  by  which 
the  world  in  general  lived.  So  far  as  the  world  in  general 
was  concerned  he  had,  but  only  because  his  idealism  dwelt  in 
its  own  inner  fastness,  in  a  world  apart;  a  world  inhabited 
only  by  Aurelia  Leonard,  and  by  Hugh  himself,  not  as  he  was, 
but  as  he  would  have  liked  to  be.  To  bring  this  world  and  the 
real  world  into  relation  was  a  feat  the  very  thought  of  which 
dizzied  him.  That  he  had  ever  uttered  words  which  opened 
the  door  upon  hope  filled  him,  in  retrospect,  with  amazement. 
Only  the  shattering  influences  of  the  war  could  have  so  broken 
through  the  wall  of  his  dreams;  and  now  as  he  looked  at  the 
breach  he  could  formulate  no  vision  of  what  lay  beyond.  He 
could  admit  hope  into  his  dream  world;  but  hope  shot  it 
with  colour  so  brilliant  that  he  turned  away,  blinded.  With 


370  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

hope  he  was  more  than  satisfied;  he  was  intoxicated.  Of  the 
reality  which  hope  promised  he  could  form  no  conception,  he 
wanted  to  form  none.  But  what  it  meant,  this  satisfaction 
with,  this  incapacity  to  pass  beyond,  the  incomplete,  he  did  not 
ask.  He  would  not  admit  to  himself  that  to  translate  Aurelia 
from  the  world  of  dreams  to  the  world  of  actuality  seemed  to 
reduce  her,  and  to  reduce  instead  of  extending  his  life;  but, 
unadmitted,  this  suspicion  hovered  over  his  thoughts  and  in- 
fluenced the  pictures  his  mind  built,  keeping  them  persistently 
in  the  region  of  the  undefined. 

Every  train,  however  slow,  arrives  at  last;  Paddington 
brought  Hugh  back  to  ordinary  things,  and  to  Daphne.  On 
the  platform  they  parted,  and  as  they  did  so  he  felt  a  pang  of 
self-reproach.  He  had  done  nothing  for  Daphne;  he  could 
only  squeeze  her  hand  hard  and  let  his  look  convey  no  hint  of 
the  sympathy  which  her  pride  held  at  arm's  length.  Her  words, 
awkwardly  formal,  told  him  how  remote  she  was,  how  pre- 
occupied. 

"Mother's  coming  up  on  Wednesday,  I  hope.  You'll 
come  and  see  us  before  you  go?  Or  are  you  going  back  to 
Wending  End?" 

"It  depends  on  what  they  tell  me  at  the  War  Office,"  he 
said.  "But,  anyhow,  I  shall  see  you  before  I  leave  town." 
He  hesitated;  she  was  turning  away.  "Good  luck,"  he  mur- 
mured. It  was  inappropriate,  unmeaning;  but  she  turned  her 
head  to  look  back  at  him  with  a  low  "Thank  you. " 

Hugh  still  thought  of  her  and  wondered  about  her  as  he 
made  his  way  towards  Whitehall.  But  his  thoughts  could 
not  long  be  distracted  from  himself;  they  were  so  pleasantly 
absorbing  that  he  did  not  resent  the  forty  minutes  he  was  kept 
waiting  at  the  War  Office,  nor  the  invincible  ignorance  displayed 
by  the  khaki-clad  functionary  there  with  whom  he  had,  at 
last,  an  entirely  futile  interview.  He  did  not  suffer  fools  gladly 
as  a  rule;  to-day,  however,  he  only  smiled  on  them,  as  he  had 
smiled  at  the  discomforts  of  the  train.  As  he  finally  emerged 
again  into  Whitehall  he  almost  ran  into  a  young  woman  who 
was  waiting  just  outside.  She  held  a  large  umbrella  in  a  white- 
gloved  hand,  to  shelter  a  huge  feathered  hat  from  the  eternal 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  371 

rain,  and  Hugh  glanced  at  her  again  as  he  passed  out,  struck  by 
something  curiously  festive  in  her  appearance.  He  knew 
nothing  of  clothes,  but  this  woman  would  have  suggested  a 
party,  if  one  had  not  known  that  parties  were  things  of  the 
past.  There  was  about  her  altogether  an  indefinable  air  of 
gaiety,  odd  in  such  weather,  in  that  place.  She  at  least  had 
not  come  to  scrutinise  casualty  lists,  or  if  she  had,  had  found  the 
loved  name  happily  absent.  Hugh  smiled,  but  not  with  any 
recognition,  and  was  passing  on  when  a  voice  called  him. 

"Really,  Mr.  Infield!"  It  was  a  protesting,  almost  an 
indignant  voice.  He  turned.  A  hand  was  being  held  out,  and 
dark  eyes  were  raised  to  his  face.  There  was  something 
familiar  in  the  eyes,  but  he  could  not  place  it. 

"You  insist  upon  cutting  me?"  the  lady  went  on.  "But 
I'm  not  going  to  allow  it,  for  I  want  to  give  you  an  invita- 
tion. .  .  .  Oh,  well,  if  you  still  can  do  nothing  but  stare, 
I'm  Gertrude  Fenner. " 

Hugh  lifted  his  hat  in  slow  apology. 

"Honestly,"  he  explained,  "I  didn't  know  you.  You're 

changed  somehow,  you  look "  He  hesitated,  and  his  eyes 

travelled  up  and  down  again,  seeking  for  the  seat  of  his  puzzle- 
ment. Gertrude  Fenner  had  always  stood  in  his  mind,  with 
Lois  Drew,  as  one  of  those  bitter,  exasperated  women,  of  whom 
there  were  unfortunately  so  many,  who  had  not  pride  enough 
to  hide  a  rage  against  life  that  could  hardly  bear  scrutiny  by 
those  who  were  involved  in  life  too.  This  was  Gertrude  Fenner, 
she  said  so,  but  marvellously  changed.  The  rage  and  bitter- 
ness had  gone,  gone  with  the  smoothing  of  the  tousled  hair,  the 
clearing  of  the  dark  eyes,  the  smile  that  now  curved  the  once 
peevish  mouth.  While  he  still  hesitated,  trying  to  find  the 
word  which  would  express  what  he  felt  without  undue  blunt- 
ness,  Gertrude  supplied  him. 

"Younger?"  she  queried,  with  a  rather  uncertain  smile, 
a  smile  that  at  once  hoped  and  feared.  Hugh  nodded;  younger 
would  do  well  enough. 

"Something's  happened  to  you  too,"  said  Gertrude,  look- 
ing at  him  hard.  Hugh  only  smiled;  it  was  a  happy,  but,  he 
felt,  probably  a  rather  fatuous  smile.  Gertrude  did  not  see  it, 


372  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

she  was  looking  away  into  the  hall  of  the  War  Office  through 
the  glass  doors;  nor  did  she  pursue  any  inquiry  into  the  source 
of  Hugh's  altered  air.  She  went  back  to  her  own.  "  I  wonder 
what  you'll  say  when  I  tell  you  I'm  engaged. " 

She  looked  for  a  moment  almost  apprehensive,  and  her  look 
gave  Hugh  a  sudden  vision  of  the  change  that  had  indeed  come 
over  himself.  A  week  ago  if  he  had  been  told  that  Gertrude 
Fenner  had  got  over  the  hopeless  passion  in  which  she  had, 
ever  since  he  had  known  her — and  his  knowledge  went  back 
further  than  that  of  almost  any  of  the  other  members  of  the 
set — gone  about  enwrapped  as  in  a  tragic  mantle,  the  news  would 
have  appeared  but  as  one  more  instance  of  the  littleness  of 
human  beings,  one  more  sign  of  the  moral  perversities  bred 
by  war.  The  ghost  of  his  natural  comment  brushed  him  with 
its  wings  and  dulled  the  congratulations  he  murmured. 

"Oh,  I  dare  say  you  scorn  me,"  said  Gertrude  sharply, 
with  a  return  on  her  own  part  of  her  former  two-edged  man- 
ner. "I  dare  say  one  hasn't  any  right  to  be  happy.  But," 
she  threw  back  her  head  with  a  defiance  that  Hugh  found 
rather  splendid,  "I  am." 

She  looked  out  into  the  street.  It  had  stopped  raining 
and  the  sun  was  struggling  feebly  through  the  thick  brown 
of  the  atmosphere.  A  young  officer  passed  them  with  a  pretty 
girl  in  red  hanging  on  his  arm. 

"It's  the  only  thing." 

In  Hugh's  ears  it  sounded  with  a  kind  of  echo,  this  cry 
of  Gertrude's.  Yes,  it  was  stirring  everywhere,  the  passion- 
ate demand  for  personal  happiness  which,  suddenly  rising 
out  of  the  very  horrors  he  had  been  living  among,  had  en- 
abled him  to  speak  to  Aurelia  after  so  many  years  of  silence. 
The  world  had  become  unbearable.  It  did  not  stand  think- 
ing about.  One  stood,  a  lonely  human  being,  in  the  midst 
of  agony  and  held  out  helpless  hands,  that  hungered 
for  the  warm  clasp  of  other  hands.  Of  course  the  sol- 
diers felt  it;  even  more  keenly  than  they  the  women 
who  could  not  snatch,  like  them,  forgetfulness  from 
action.  War,  sweeping  over  them  like  a  mighty  wave, 
levelled  all  complexity,  all  difference,  and  left  high  and 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  373 

dry  a  naked  simplicity.  Thought  was  annihilated;  emo- 
tion ruled.  Hugh  looked  back  at  Gertrude,  on  whose 
lips  a  smile  lingered.  He  wondered  whom  she  had  found. 
Not  that  it  mattered  much,  obviously.  One  must  find  some 
one.  That  was  the  point.  While  his  eyes  were  on  her  face 
he  saw  her  smile  broaden;  some  one  was  coming  out  through 
the  swinging  doors  and  Gertrude's  face  showed  him  that  this 
was  the  right  person  at  last. 

"Ah,  here's  Denis,"  she  murmured,  and  glanced  quickly 
at  Hugh,  with  a  sort  of  new  pride  of  possession,  as  there  ap- 
proached a  bland  and  blond  young  man,  very  fresh  and  sim- 
ple looking,  and  to  Hugh  for  that  reason  oddly  pathetic  in  his 
khaki,  in  spite  of  his  cheerful  and  contented  smile.  He  was 
obviously  very  young,  a  boy  probably  just  down  from  Ox- 
ford. Gertrude  introduced  him  and  then  asked  eagerly  for 
the  result  of  his  inquiries. 

He  shook  his  head.  "No  chance  at  present,"  he  said 
brightly.  "Back  to  the  mud-heap  again." 

Gertrude's  face  visibly  cleared. 

"Oh,  well,"  she  said.  "Then  we  might  take  that 
cottage." 

They  talked  together  for  a  few  minutes,  then  as  Ger- 
trude and  Denis  prepared  to  move  off  in  the  opposite 
direction  from  that  in  which  Hugh  himself  was  going,  she 
said — 

"By  the  bye,  I  hear  Nigel  is  talking  of  going  out  to 
France.  .  .  .  His  chief  is  back,  you  know — old  Davis. 
I  suppose  they'd  get  married  at  once  in  that  case.  .  .  . 
Yes,"  she  smiled  and  blushed  very  becomingly,  "we're  going 
to." 

Hugh  looked  after  them  as  they  walked  away  together, 
and  pondered.  Not  about  their  future.  They  had,  poor 
things,  no  future.  Of  that,  he  knew,  Gertrude  shared  his 
own  terrible  conviction.  Some  men  bore  on  their  brows  the 
mark  of  death,  and  it  sat  above  the  round  brown  eyes 
of  Denis  Lane  and  gave  a  dignity  to  his  boyishness. 
Gertrude's  future  was  the  substitution  of  a  new  for  an  old 
pain.  Could  one  say  of  a  real  for  a  false,  or  was  it  the  other 


374  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

way  round,  he  asked  himself,  as  he  walked  slowly  along  the 
Strand. 

Nigel,  he  found  on  arriving  at  his  rooms,  was  still  in 
the  country,  though  expected  that  evening  or  early  the 
next  morning.  Hugh  was  glad  of  his  absence.  He  very 
decidedly  did  not  want  to  see  Nigel.  He  did  not  even 
want  to  think  about  him.  Fortunately  he  could  sit 
in  his  rooms  without  any  sense  of  Nigel's  presence  haunt- 
ing him.  It  was  one  of  his  merits  that  he  created  no 
atmosphere;  the  rooms  were  Hugh's  and  had  always 
been  Hugh's.  If  Nigel  departed,  there  would  be  hardly  any 
difference  in  their  visible  aspect.  He  would  take  his 
neat  desk  away  and  his  silver  tea-set,  but  hardly  anything 
else.  Hugh,  looking  about  him,  felt  that  he  would  be  glad 
when  the  desk  and  the  silver  tea-set  were  gone;  but 
they  hardly  mattered.  Nigel  at  Tenacre  might  fill  the 
place  with  his  presence;  he  left  practically  nothing  be- 
hind. It  was  odd,  that.  Aurelia,  in  lodgings  for  ten 
days,  filled  the  place  with  herself;  rooms  she  had  once  in- 
habited were  impregnated  with  the  sense  of  her.  Hugh  him- 
self had  created  in  the  Temple  an  abode  that  was  redolent 
of  his  personality.  Nigel  was  entirely  different.  Hugh  felt 
that  it  was  a  problem  that  it  would  be  interesting  at  some 
other  time  to  consider,  to  discuss,  for  instance,  with  Aurelia. 
At  the  moment  he  had  no  time,  no  inclination  to  reflect  upon 
Nigel.  It  was  sufficient  to  accept,  with  thankfulness,  the 
fact  that  he  was  not  there. 

He  sat  down  at  his  own  confused  table  to  write  letters. 
There  were  a  great  many  necessary  business  ones,  for 
he  had  decided,  after  his  talk  at  the  War  Office,  to  return 
at  once  to  France,  although  for  a  period  which  he  in- 
tended to  make  extremely  brief;  and  there  was  also  a 
letter  to  Aurelia.  That  he  left  to  the  last,  after  the  others 
had  been  finished,  and  sat  for  long  in  silence,  his  pen  idle 
on  the  blotting  paper.  What  he  at  last  wrote  was  very 
short. 

"Aurelia,  I  must  go  back  to  France,  I  hope  only  for  ten 
days.  I  shall  carry  with  me  a  joy  that  I  can  yet  hardly  realise; 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  375 

a  hope  that  makes  even  that  joy  pale.  You  won't,  I  know, 
expect  or  want  me  to  say  anything  more.  The  sun  shines; 
that's  all." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  then  wrote  on — 

"I  wish  I  could  have  seen  Daphne  again,  but  I  go  off 
early  to-morrow.  She  will  be  all  right,  I'm  sure.  She's  your 
daughter,  and  that  means,  whatever  happens,  that  she 
possesses  her  own  soul.  Dearest,  the  thought  of  you 
has  always  been  what  I  lived  by,  since  I  lived  at  all;  and  at 
forty-three  you  make  me  feel  that  life  is  beginning.  There 
is  a  relation  beyond  giving  and  taking,  so  I  won't  re- 
gret that  I  have  nothing  to  give  you  but  my  love.  It 
has  always  been  all  yours;  that  you  accept  it  makes  it 
glorious." 


CHAPTER  THIRTY 

GERTRUDE  FENNER'S  sudden  and  strange  engage- 
ment was  a  stone  cast  into  the  waters  of  her  set, 
making  many  circles.  For  in  spite  of  the  wild  and 
awful  phantasmagoria  reflected,  the  surface  of  their  own  par- 
ticular pond  had,  for  some  time,  seemed  to  all  of  them  sur- 
prisingly stagnant.  They  had  all  got  used  to  the  war,  and 
found  that  when  it  could  no  longer  stir  them,  Gertrude  Fenner's 
engagement  did.  At  Tenacre  it  was  exhaustively  discussed 
in  every  aspect  by  the  Nugents,  Nigel  Strode,  and  Myrtle 
Toller,  who  made  up  the  Christmas  party;  and  there  was 
no  one  of  them  who  did  not  feel  a  kind  of  envy  of  Gertrude, 
who  had  thus  made  herself  interesting  and  important  at  a 
time  when  the  individual's  role  might  have  seemed  to 
have  been  reduced  to  the  most  tenuous.  For  Nigel 
the  subject  possessed  a  fascination  which  he  could  not 
have  analysed,  but  which  compelled  him  to  recur  to  it  again 
and  again. 

On  the  Monday  after  Christmas  he  was  playing  billiards 
with  Myrtle.  She  was  a  very  good  player  and  he  was  being 
badly  beaten,  which  diminished  his  interest  in  the  game 
and  encouraged  his  mind  to  wander  off  on  general  re- 
flections. 

"The  one  thing  I  never  expected,"  he  said  after  a  con- 
siderable period  in  which  they  had  played  in  silence,  "was 
that  war  would  be  dull.  But  it  is — duller  than  peace,  when 
one  isn't  actually  in  it." 

Myrtle  nodded  acquiescence. 

"I  suppose,"  Nigel  went  on,  "when  you  are  in  it,  it  isn't." 

376 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  377 

"Herbert  said  it  was  the  dullest  thing  he  ever  struck. 
Hideous,  but  appallingly  dull." 

Nigel  pondered.    "You  feel  it,  I  suppose?" 

"Because  of  Herbert?"  Myrtle  looked  at  her  new  black 
skirt. 

"Well,  you  are  in  it." 

Myrtle  looked  at  him. 

"I  don't  feel  Herbert's  death  much,  you  know.  ...  I 
didn't  know  him;  not  half  as  well  as  I  know  you  or  Ned 
Coventry,  or  poor  Cecil  Tebb,  or  lots  of  other  people. 
What  I  do  feel  is  that  I  have  done  my  bit,  you  know.  .  .  . 
One  feels  out  of  it  unless  one's  got  some  kind  of  a  part;  and 
being  in  black  is  all  there  is  for  a  woman,  unless  one 
goes  out  to  nurse  or  something,  which  I  don't  want  to 
do." 

Nigel  agreed.  "Out  of  it"  was  precisely  what  he  felt,  and 
to  an  extent  he  could  not  explain. 

"What  I  can't  understand,"  Myrtle  went  on,  "is  why 
you  don't  go  in.  ...  You  see,  you've  got  a  first-rate  part 
waiting  for  you,  much  better  than  Gertrude's.  I  don't  know 
what  will  happen  to  Gertrude,  you  know,  unless  her  man 
gets  killed.  She  can't  possibly  live  with  a  baby  like  Denis, 
she's  not  the  sort." 

Nigel  was  tired  of  Gertrude. 

"What  is  my  good  part?"  he  said. 

Myrtle  looked  at  him,  smiling. 

"You  believe  I  can  tell  you?" 

"You  understand  me,  don't  you?" 

Myrtle  examined  the  end  of  her  cue,  then  she  nodded. 

"Pretty  well.  Your  part  is,  a — to  marry,  and  b — to  go 
out  to  France.  Oh,  it  doesn't  matter  in  what  capacity.  You 
could  drive  your  car  as  an  ambulance,  or  get  an  adminis- 
trative job,  easily.  I  told  you  so,  a  week  ago." 

"You  told  me  about  going  out.    Not  about  marrying." 

Myrtle  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Marrying  is  obvious.  I  can't  see  what  you've  been 
waiting  for.  Now's  the  time  to  marry;  there's  nothing  else 
to  do.  To  marry  and  go  out  is  so  much  the  beau  role  that 


378  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

I  can't  understand  what  you've  been  up  to."  She  paused. 
"You  haven't  quarrelled,  by  any  chance?" 

"Goodness  me,  no!"  cried  Nigel. 

Myrtle  again  looked  at  him. 

"I  don't  think  Daphne  likes  it,  you  know." 

"What?" 

"Waiting.  She  looked  pale  green  on  Wednesday,  I 
thought.  What  on  earth  have  you  been  hanging  about 
for?" 

It  was  not  a  question  Nigel  could  answer,  even  to  him- 
self. He  had  known  why  once,  he  supposed,  since  the 
postponement  had  been  entirely  his  doing;  but  his  mo- 
tives had  become  obscured,  and  he  did  not  want  to  revive 
them.  What  Myrtle  now  said  affected  him,  it  fitted  in  with 
the  train  of  thoughts  stirred  by  Gertrude's  approaching  mar- 
riage. To  marry  was  just  what  he  wanted  at  the  mo- 
ment. It  was  the  only  thing  he  could  think  of  doing  that 
would  give  back  to  him  his  lost  sense  of  the  reality  of  his 
world.  He  had  ceased  to  be  a  centre,  and  in  losing  that  sense 
he  seemed  to  have  lost  the  sense  of  being  at  all.  The  thing 
absolutely  lost  interest  otherwise.  If  he  had  to  stand 
outside  of  it,  he  was  overcome  by  a  vast  indifference. 
Events  which  did  not  happen  to  him  were  unreal — and 
nothing  was  happening  to  him.  To  see  other  people 
suffering,  rejoicing,  thrilled  by  any  sheer  emotion,  only 
gave  him  a  pang  of  envy.  To  marry  would  centralise  him 
again.  It  had  centralised  even  Gertrude.  Moreover,  if 
marriage  in  the  abstract  was  one  thing,  and  marrying 
Daphne  quite  another,  the  second  half  of  the  r61e  sketched 
for  him  by  Myrtle  met  this  problem  adequately  too.  For 
to  go  out  to  France  in  some  capacity  or  other  would 
revive  his  interest  in  the  war,  and  so  enable  him  to  meet 
Daphne's  demands  on  him  for  feeling  and  action.  She 
expected  him  to  be  .remarkable;  if  he  were  going  out,  he  would 
be  remarkable  enough,  and,  moreover,  would  not  have 
to  meet  these  demands  unintermittently.  At  home, 
where  nothing  happened,  it  was  natural  he  should  feel 
that  she  asked  a  great  deal,  and  that  he  had  nothing 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  379 

adequate  to  give;  and  that  in  its  turn  produced  a  sub- 
jective reaction  which  made  him  progressively  less  and 
less  able  to  meet  her.  This  explanation  pleased  Nigel, 
for  it  seemed  to  cover  the  malaise  of  the  past  months  and 
to  promise  something  entirely  different  for  the  future, 
something  more  like  the  terms  of  the  earlier  relations 
between  himself  and  Daphne.  Daphne  had  certainly 
been  particularly  unresponsive  at  their  last  meeting; 
but  she  had  been  obviously  tired,  and  all  that  she  had 
said,  from  her  exaggerated  attitude  about  Gervase  O'Con- 
nor downwards,  had  shown  how  the  strain  of  long  wait- 
ing was  telling  on  her.  She  was  young,  and  her  tem- 
perament much  more  ardent,  in  the  crude  sense,  than 
his  own,  he  knew  that;  long  engagements  did  tell  upon 
people  of  that  type.  There  was  probably  a  simple  natural 
explanation  for  everything  queer  in  her.  He  should  not  sug- 
gest anything  of  the  kind  to  her,  of  course,  but  he  found 
considerable  comfort  for  himself  in  the  late  discovery 
of  this  primitive  fact.  It  meant,  too,  that  nothing  that 
was  difficult  in  her  need  persist.  From  Daphne's  point 
of  view  the  arguments  in  favour  of  marrying  were  so  strong 
that  Nigel  could  only  marvel  how  he  had  been  blind  to 
them. 

What  had  happened  to  his  relations  to  her  in  the  last 
few  months  Nigel  indeed  found  himself,  again,  incapable 
of  analysing;  but  something  had:  she  had  moved  away:  he 
had  lost  hold  of  her :  he  had  the  sense  that  he  no  longer  knew 
her.  But  was  that  not,  after  all,  his  own  fault?  Re- 
viewing their  recent  meetings,  Nigel  saw  them  all  as 
too  intellectual,  too  little  emotional.  He  was  tired  of  his 
mind,  of  the  mind  of  every  one;  he  wanted  once  more  to  feel, 
not  to  think.  He  had  made  a  mistake  in  proposing  a  long 
engagement.  Every  one's  experience  proved  the  diffi- 
culty of  that.  People  always  got  on  each  other's  nerves. 
What  was  wanted  to  save  him  and  Daphne  from  the 
morass  of  nervous  ennui  for  which  they  had  been  head- 
ing, was  a  sudden  emotional  shock.  Marriage  would 
give  that.  If  they  were  to  be  married  quite  quickly  and  go 


380  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

away  together  to  some  remote  spot,  they  could  rub 
out  all  the  tiresome  little  lines  that  had  blurred  the  surface 
of  their  feeling  by  a  broad  stroke  of  vivid  colour.  What 
Daphne  wanted — he  knew  it  now — what  she  had  wanted 
more  than  once,  was  that  he  should  simply  catch  her  in 
his  arms.  He  had  not  been  able  to  do  it — he  did  not 
know  why;  he  had  been  a  fool — but  his  power  over  her 
was,  he  felt  sure,  unimpaired.  That  she  loved  him  he  had 
not  the  least  doubt.  He  had  held  her  off.  He  would  do  so 
no  longer.  He  would  let  her  love  him,  and  her  love  would 
give  him  the  thrill  that  had  deserted  him  so  long  and  left 
him  thus  stranded,  empty,  desolate. 

Nigel  suddenly  felt  sorry  for  himself,  for  the  time  he  had 
wasted,  for  the  aridity  of  his  lonely  days.  He  was  impa- 
tient to  see  Daphne,  to  whirl  her  off  her  feet  and  be  whirled 
off  his  own.  Beyond  the  whirl  he  did  not  look.  He  saw  Daphne 
again  as  he  had  seen  her  in  the  early  days  of  their  engage- 
ment; all  that  had  passed  between  was  swept  away.  The 
hours  that  separated  him  from  Tuesday  afternoon  dragged 
slowly,  although  he  left  Tenacre  in  the  morning  by  an  ab- 
surdly early  train. 

But  Daphne,  when  he  at  last  saw  her,  was  not  as 
she  had  been  in  June  and  July,  not  as  he  had  seen  her  in  the 
picture  of  their  meeting  that  had  formed  itself  in  his 
mind.  She  said  nothing  when  the  maid  showed  him  in 
to  the  white  drawing-room,  but  he  felt  her  silence  like 
a  hand  held  up  to  ward  him  off.  She  hardly  even  moved. 
He  found  her,  as  he  came  in,  standing  with  her  back  to 
the  window,  and  she  stood  so  and  looked  at  him,  that  was 
all.  When  he  drew  near,  with  the  intention  of  embracing 
her,  she  still  said  nothing;  but  her  look  arrested  him,  kept 
him  too,  standing  where  he  was,  without  a  word.  It 
was  not  that  she  looked  hard  or  critical,  on  the  contrary  she 
had  never  seemed  more  gentle  or  more  young;  but  there 
was  something  in  her  face  that  made  approach  diffi- 
cult. The  words  he  had  meant  to  say  died  on  his  lips, 
the  wish  to  utter  them  in  his  heart.  And  though  they 
had  exchanged  only  the  formal  greeting  needful  while 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  381 

the  maid  still  lingered  on  the  threshold,  Nigel  felt  the  con- 
trol over  their  interview  passing  out  of  his  hands,  passing 
from  him  to  Daphne.  Before  this  mere  contact  with 
her  his  imaginings  fell  away.  They  had  been  woven 
round  a  void;  against  the  real  Daphne  they  withered 
and  dropped.  For  she  knew  something  he  did  not  know. 
He  had,  he  knew  it  almost  at  once,  come  to  hear  her,  not 
she  to  hear  him,  and  he  could  only  wait  for  what  she  had 
to  tell  him.  Again  there  swept  over  him  the  sense  that  he 
was  outside,  and  empty-handed.  He  could  not  offer  Daphne 
that  emptiness;  she  made  him  feel  that,  as  she  looked 
now,  straight  at  him.  In  her  clear  eyes,  darker  some- 
how than  usual,  and  more  coloured  because  of  the  shad- 
ows under  them,  there  was  something  that  he  did  not 
understand,  something  painful  and  hard  to  meet.  He 
wanted  to  look  and  to  look  away  at  once;  to  look  in 
order  that  he  might  see  her,  to  look  away  in  order  that  she 
might  not  see  him.  With  her  deeper  intensity  she  held 
and  compelled  his  eyes,  and  her  gaze  was  penetrating. 
She  was  not  showing  him  what  was  behind  her  own 
eyes;  he  might  guess  at  pain,  but  it  was  only  a  guess.  Daphne 
he  felt  did  not  mind  what  he  saw.  That  seemed  no  longer 
to  concern  her.  She  was  searching  his  face  for  some- 
thing that  he  knew  himself  unable  to  give.  He  pre- 
sented, he  knew,  only  the  blankness  of  his  own  questions; 
no  answers  to  hers. 

It  seemed  a  long  time  that  she  thus  looked  at  him,  but 
at  last  she  turned  away,  and  moving  towards  a  chair 
by  the  fire,  sat  down.  She  sat  with  her  hands  straight  by 
her  side,  the  palms  pressed  against  the  wood  which 
she  grasped  so  hard  that  Nigel  saw  how  the  knuckles  and 
little  bones  stood  out  and  the  veins  showed  blue  under 
the  white  frills  at  the  end  of  her  sleeves.  He  liked  those  white 
frills,  and  the  grey  velvet  dress  she  wore  in  which  she 
looked  pretty,  he  thought,  and  nunlike,  with  her  small 
smooth  head  bound  by  a  narrow  velvet  ribbon;  liked  too 
the  grey  shoes  with  buckles,  and  something  exquisitely 
neat  about  her  whole  appearance  which  he  had  not  always 


382  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

found  in  it.  He  looked  at  her,  observing  all  these  trivial 
details,  but  nothing  came  to  him  to  say.  He  simply 
waited,  and  while  he  waited  his  heart  began  to  beat 
fast,  as  though  he  were  afraid  of  what  was  coming. 
He  did  not  know  what  it  was,  but  he  dreaded  it.  Yet 
when  it  came,  when  he  heard  Daphne's  voice  speak  it, 
amid  all  the  confusion  of  his  feelings  there  was  hardly  any 
surprise. 

"Nigel,"  she  said,  "I  am  not  going  to  marry  you."  Her 
voice  was  low,  there  was  a  faltering  in  the  dropping  notes 
that  made  his  name;  but  the  words  were  clear,  and  they  came 
to  him  with  something  final  in  their  unaccented  tonelessness. 
Daphne  had  not  changed  her  position;  she  sat  as  before,  her 
hands  gripping  the  chair,  her  eyes  fixed  on  some  point  straight 
before  her. 

Nigel  too  sat  quite  still.  It  had  come.  It  had  come  from 
Daphne.  And  his  first,  clearest  feeling  was  one  of  re- 
lief. Across  the  stifling  disarray  of  his  mind  the  words 
blew  a  gust  of  cold  air.  He  could  not  take  in  all  they 
meant,  but  he  felt  that  windows  had  been  opened,  blinds 
let  spring.  There  was  in  him  no  impulse  to  resist  or 
even  to  protest,  although  he  had  come  filled  with  such 
different  intentions.  An  instinct  that  underlay  all  the 
elaborate  superstructure  of  his  arguments,  told  him  she 
was  right.  This  was  the  solution,  not  the  one  he  had 
found.  Plunged  deep  in  his  own  sensations,  he  had 
made  no  answer,  and  it  was  with  a  start  that,  coming  to  the 
surface  again,  he  realised  that  he  had  said  nothing.  He  turned 
towards  Daphne,  opening  his  lips  in  mechanical  pro- 
test, but  as  he  turned  he  met  her  eyes  upon  him.  Per- 
haps they  had  been  upon  him  all  the  time,  grave  and 
very  sad.  They  made  him  wonder  what  had  been  passing 
in  her  mind,  and  as  he  looked  deeper  the  question  gave 
him  his  first  stab  of  pain.  What  had  he  done  or  failed 
to  do  that  she  should  look  at  him  like  that,  say  what  she  had 
said? 

"Oh,  Daphne!"  he  breathed,  and  all  his  sorrow  for 
himself  was  in  it  and  in  the  glance  he  fixed  on  her.  Daphne 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  383 

did  not  look  at  him  again.  Her  face  was  pale;  there 
was  a  rigidity  in  its  lines  that  struck  him  as  hard.  She 
did  not  look  beautiful  or  pathetic,  she  only  looked  far 
away,  her  colour  obliterated,  her  sharp  vividness  dim. 
She  opened  her  lips,  but  closed  them  again  without  giving 
forth  anything. 

Nigel  groped  in  the  darkness  of  his  mind,  trying  to 
discover  surprise,  indignation,  even  distress;  feeling  him- 
self, as  it  were,  all  over,  avoiding  yet  seeking  the  pain- 
ful spot,  the  place  where  he  had  been  hurt.  He  must 
be  hurt,  yet  the  spot  eluded  him.  He  found  only  a  baffled 
indistinctness,  an  inability  either  to  think  or  feel.  Was 
he  perhaps  so  much  hurt  that  he  could  not  think  or  feel? 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  murmured. 

This  seemed  to  waken  Daphne. 

"No,"  she  took  it  up  quickly.  "I  know.  That's 
just  it.  For  a  long  time  I  didn't  understand  either. 
Because  I  couldn't  bear  it,  I  think.  I  refused  to  see."  The 
words  dropped  out  like  little  hard  pebbles,  aimed  at  some 
mark,  but  missing  it.  "But  now  I  do  see."  The  mark  was 
found. 

Found  for  her,  Nigel  knew,  but  not  for  him.  He  did  not 
understand.  He  did  not  want  to.  What  he  wanted  was  only 
to  get  away.  With  Daphne  before  him  he  could  do  nothing, 
feel  nothing.  This  failure  to  feel  puzzled  and  disturbed  him, 
the  more  that  he  now  saw  that  Daphne  was  feeling 
acutely.  Her  trembling  mouth  confessed  it,  though  her 
voice  sounded  level  and  dull;  and  her  eyes,  which  refused  to 
meet  his. 

"But,  Daphne,"  he  fumbled  helplessly,  "why  is  this? 
I  came  this  morning,  full  of  hope.  ...  I  wanted  you.  .  .  . 
I  wanted  to  be  married  at  once " 

Daphne  gave  a  little  laugh. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  laugh,"  Nigel  cried,  with  a  clutch 
at  indignation,  though  indignation  seemed  somehow  absurd. 
"Don't  you  love  me?" 

At  that  Daphne  did  look  at  him,  though  only  for  a  fleet- 
ing instant. 


384  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  love  you.    But  I  see." 

Nigel  got  up  from  his  chair  and  moved  restlessly  about  on 
the  hearthrug. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  seeing.  What  do 
you  see?  What  is  there  to  see?  I  think  you  might 

explain.  To  treat  me  suddenly  like  this  is "  He 

cast  about  him  for  a  word;  the  right  word  would  not 
come.  "It's  cruel,"  he  said.  Cruel  was  not  the  right 
word;  it  was  theatrical,  childish,  inaccurate;  but  it  must 
serve. 

"No  .  .  .  I'm  not  being  cruel.  Not  to  you,  at  any  rate." 
Daphne  paused  and  then  went  on  again,  more  evenly, 
as  if  she  had  thought  it  all  out,  as  if  it  were  clear  to 
her,  though  she  did  not  trouble  to  put  it  into  words 
that  flowed.  "I  am  sparing  you  a  kind  of  misery,  discom- 
fort, worry  that  you  can't  see  the  point  or  value  of. 
I  can.  I  could  bear  it,  even  be  glad  of  it,  because  I  get  some- 
thing else  with  it,  in  return  for  it,  as  part  of  it,  that 
I  can  bear,  can  almost  rejoice  in,  because  it's  the  price  of 
something  great.  But  for  you,  it's  simply  not  worth 
while.  You  can't  take  what  I  want  to  give  you.  You 
don't  want  it,  don't  know  what  to  do  with  it.  So,  I 
let  you  off.  That's  all.  No!"  she  held  up  her  hand,  as  he 
made  a  motion  as  if  to  interrupt  her,  "it  is  not  that 
I  don't  love  you.  I  love  you  too  much.  More  than  you  can 
bear.  I  could  bear  your  not  loving  me  in  the  same 
way,  though  it  has  hurt;  but  you  can't.  So,  this  is  the  end. 
The  people  who  can't  give,  can't  take.  That's  what  I'm  up 
against." 

She  had  risen  to  her  feet  and  moved  towards  the  fireplace. 
With  her  back  to  him  she  went  on — 

"I  am  doing  it  because  it  has  to  be  done.  If  I  waited 
you'd  do  it  one  day.  ...  I  can  bear  to  do  it;  not  to  have 
it  done  to  me."  Her  arms  lay  along  the  mantelpiece  and 
she  bent  her  head  so  that  it  rested  upon  them,  and  said  no 
more. 

Nigel  had  sat  down  again  when  she  rose,  and  still  sat 
after  she  ceased,  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  chin  on 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  385 

his  hands,  stunned  into  speechlessness.  As  the  words 
dropped  out  one  after  another  from  Daphne's  lips,  low 
and  unemphatic,  he  heard  them,  but  that  was  all.  The 
right  thing  surely  was  to  protest,  eagerly,  violently; 
to  catch  her  in  his  arms  and  sweep  away  her  arguments  by 
the  only  logic  that  could  meet  them.  But  he  could  not  do 
it.  For  it  was  true,  what  she  said.  He  had  no  word 
to  answer,  could  only  sit  and  look  at  her  as  she  stood 
with  her  face  buried  and  hidden,  look  and  feel  nothing.  Slim 
and  straight  and  very  young  she  stood,  like  a  child 
weeping  because  chidden  for  some  fault.  Was  she  weep- 
ing? She  made  no  sound.  Nigel  almost  wished  she 
would  weep,  for  it  might  break  in  upon  his  sense  of 
unreality. 

The  sun,  parting  the  grey  afternoon  mist,  cast  across  the 
room  a  long  shaft  of  light  that  fell  on  Daphne,  so  that  her 
hair,  that  soft  smooth  hair  he  had  loved  to  stroke,  was  strewn 
with  gold-dust.  Did  this  mean  he  should  never  stroke 
it  again?  The  thought  hurt  him  as  nothing  had  done  yet, 
but  still  he  sat  frozen. 

The  numbness  that  held  him  was  rudely  broken.  The 
telephone  on  Mrs.  Leonard's  desk  suddenly  rang  out  stri- 
dently, with  a  harsh  sound  insulting  to  the  nerves.  Daphne 
raised  her  head — no,  she  had  not  been  crying — and  moved 
towards  it. 

"Yes.  .  .  .  yes.  Yes,  this  is  Kensington  1001.  Oh, 
Hugh,  how  very  nice  of  you.  .  .  .  Yes,  of  course  I  will." 

Nigel  rose  to  his  feet.  Daphne  did  not  turn:  the  receiver 
was  still  at  her  ear;  evidently  it  was  going  to  be  a 
long  conversation,  he  thought.  He  moved  his  chair  a 
little  noisily  so  as  to  attract  her  attention.  Daphne  turned 
her  head. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  speaking  not  to  the  instrument,  but  to 
him.  "Please  do  go." 

Nigel  hesitated.  The  ending  seemed  to  him  horribly 
crude  and  paltry,  but  he  could  find  no  adequate  words, 
and  there  was  a  look  in  her  eyes  from  which  he  wanted  to 
escape. 


386  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

"I'll  write,"  he  murmured. 

Daphne's  attention  was  given  to  the  telephone.  She 
did  not  turn  her  head;  he  opened  the  door  and  let  himself 
out.  Half-way  down  the  stone  stairs  he  paused.  He  could 
not  go,  they  could  not  part,  like  that.  That  was  not  how 
big  things  went  from  you.  But  his  pause  only  lasted  a  few 
seconds,  he  went  on  and  out  into  the  air. 

The  sun  had  swept  the  mists  aside  and  for  a  moment 
was  casting  a  sombre  splendour  over  the  Gardens.  Behind 
him  the  spire  of  St.  Mary  Abbotts  reared  its  wedge 
sublime  against  the  dark  glow  of  the  sky,  above  the  black 
mass  of  the  houses.  Along  the  street  the  lit  lamps  were  pale 
yellow.  Nigel  stood  irresolute  for  a  moment  at  the 
corner.  He  glanced  up  at  the  windows  of  the  flats.  It 
was  strange  that  it  was  all  over,  that  he  should  probably 
never  climb  those  stairs  again.  He  felt  undecided  as  to  what 
to  do  or  where  to  go.  He  did  not  want  to  go  home  and  think. 
Hugh  might  be  there,  and  Hugh  was  the  last  person  he 
wanted. 

Still  uncertain,  he  turned  into  the  Gardens.  About 
the  stems  of  the  bare  trees  the  mists  that  lay  heavy 
over  the  grass  still  swirled.  It  was  damp  and  chilly:  there 
were  very  few  people  about.  One  or  two  belated  nurse- 
maids, hurrying  home  to  tea  before  the  gates  were  shut, 
and  in  front  of  him  a  sailor  with  his  arm  round  the  waist 
of  a  girl.  She  leaned  close  to  him,  and  smiled  up  into  his 
face,  heedless  that  the  grass  was  heavy  with  wet.  Nigel 
glanced  at  them  with  disfavour  as  he  passed.  They  were 
absorbed  and  did  not  see  him;  and  hard  on  his  disfavour 
there  followed  a  sharper  stab.  Was  it  envy?  Daphne's  words 
came  back  to  him.  "You  can't  take  what  I  want  to 
give  you  .  .  .  the  people  who  can't  give,  can't  take." 
Was  that  true?  Had  something  great  been  offered  to 
him  which  he  could  not  accept?  Something  which  that  com- 
mon fellow  in  blue  could  take  and  give,  from  which 
he  was  shut  out?  A  sense  of  personal  humiliation  swept 
over  him,  a  bitterness  against  Daphne,  against  himself,  against 
life. 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  387 

At  Hyde  Park  Corner  the  pavements  were  plastered  with 
the  eternal  war  posters,  and  hoarse  boys  shouted  out  the 
headlines  of  stop-press  editions.  "What  is  a  broken  engage- 
ment in  the  midst  of  all  this?"  Nigel  asked  himself.  But 
the  question  hardly  helped  him.  The  day  when  he  had  seen 
the  war  as  an  escape  was  over.  Calling  a  taxi,  he  directed 
the  man  to  drive  to  Chelsea. 

With  Mabel  Nugent  almost  complete  frankness  was  pos- 
sible; but  Nigel  could  not  tell  her  what  he  did  not  know,  or 
explain  what  he  did  not  understand.  At  least,  if  he  threw 
more  light  than  he  was  aware  of,  she  cast  none  of  it  back  to 
him. 

"What  I  can't  understand  is  why  I  don't  mind,"  he  said, 
as  he  sat  before  the  cosy  fire  in  her  boudoir.  She  had 
recently  turned  the  little  room  opening  into  the  gar- 
den in  which  one  used  to  leave  coats,  into  a  very  snug 
little  boudoir — with  black  paper  and  orange  curtains, 
like  Evangeline  Carrington's.  "I  don't,  you  see.  There's 
no  doubt  about  it.  I  really  feel  nothing.  Rather  cheap, 
that's  all." 

Mabel  looked  at  him  reproachfully. 

"Oh,  not  at  this  moment!  But  life  has  shrunk  some- 
how." 

"Oh,  that  will  soon  readjust  itself,"  she  said. 

But  Nigel  was  not  quite  satisfied. 

"One  ought  to  feel,  you  know.  ...  I  can't  understand 
it.  I  didn't  even  at  the  time,  even  when  she  was  telling  me." 

There  was  a  short  pause. 

"Do  you  feel  sorry  for  her?" 

Nigel  looked  up.     "Do  you?" 

Mabel  laughed,  and  he  was  not  sure  that  she  did  not  blush. 
She  equivocated,  however. 

"She's  young,  you  see." 

"And  I'm  not.  .  .  .  Do  you  think  that's  the  explana- 
tion?" Nigel  spoke  quickly.  Mabel,  who  knew  his 
tones,  felt  the  irritation  of  which  he  was  himself  perhaps 
hardly  aware. 

"Oh,    dear,    no.      In    some    ways    you're    younger    than 


388  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

any  of  us,  younger  even  than  Daphne.  But  I  should 
fancy — I  thought  the  other  day  when  she  was  here — that 
she  was  the  sort  that  takes  things  hard.  That's  all  I 
meant." 

"And  I'm  not?" 

"Oh,  no,  dear  Nigel;  thank  Heaven  you're  not." 

Nigel  stared  at  the  fire. 

"I  was  in  love  with  her,"  he  said. 

"A  long  time  ago,"  Mabel  commented.  "You  had  got 
over  it  when  you  were  at  Tenacre  in  November;  I'm  not  sure 
that  you  hadn't  in  July." 

"I  wonder,"  Nigel  mused,  "shall  I  always  get  over 
it?" 

He  looked  up  now  and  met  Mabel's  eyes.  For  the  first 
time  they  held  something  that  was  not  all  approval. 

"Because  if  so,"  he  went  on,  "I  suppose  I  had  better  not 
marry  .  .  .  any  one.  What  do  you  think?" 

Mabel  had  looked  away.  She  had  a  gaudily  painted  fan 
in  her  hand,  and  screened  her  face  from  the  fire  so  that  he  no 
longer  saw  her  expression. 

"No,  perhaps  not,"  she  said.  "Do  you  know  I  hope 
you  won't.  .  .  .  You're  so  very  nice  as  you  are.  ...  A 
wife  would  spoil  you.  ...  I  thought  Daphne  would, 
at  first.  Then  I  decided  she  wouldn't  do  anything  to 
you." 

"And  she  hasn't?" 

"No.  I  don't  think  she  has  done  anything  to  you."  She 
paused.  Nigel  was  not  sure  whether  he  were  pleased  or  no. 
But  when  she  smiled  and  went  on,  "You're  just  as  nice  as 
you  were,"  suddenly,  for  no  reason,  she  jarred  upon  him. 
But  he  kept  it  up. 

"I  haven't,  as  you  threatened  the  other  day,  quite  lost 
my  charm?" 

He  had  risen  to  his  feet.  Mabel,  still  sitting,  had  lowered 
the  fan. 

"No,"  she  said  softly.     "You  haven't  lost  any  of  it." 

He  stood  looking  down. 

"All  the  same,  you  know,  I  can't  help  feeling  that  I  have 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  389 

lost  something.     But  what  it  is,  I  can't,  for  the  life  of  me, 
discover." 

"You  won't  tell  any  one  yet,  will  you?"  he  said  as  he 
departed.  She  promised,  but  he  knew  she  would  not  keep 
her  word. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-ONE 

HUGH'S  expectation  that  he  might  be  back  in  Eng- 
land within  ten  days  was  frustrated.     He  remained 
in   France   for   three   months.      January,    February, 
March  passed.    April  was  touching  the  trees  with  green  when 
he  again  found  himself  in  London.    And  those  three  months 
passed  in  almost  complete  silence.     One  letter  from  Aurelia 
told  him  that  Daphne  had  broken  off  her  engagement  to 
Nigel;  little  more  than  the  bare  fact. 

"Daphne  is  going  on  with  her  work,"  Aurelia  said,  "and 
I  think  will  refuse  an  offer  to  go  out  to  Serbia.  But  it  is  dread- 
ful to  see  how  she  suffers."  Of  herself  she  said  nothing,  noth- 
ing of  what  had  passed  between  her  and  Hugh.  This  silence, 
however,  hardly  afflicted  Hugh.  After  a  week  to  write  seemed 
impossible;  after  a  month  he  did  not  even  want  to  write. 
There  were  things  that  must  not  be  mixed  up  together;  enough 
to  know  that  behind  this  horror,  a  light  for  him  shone  beau- 
tiful. He  had  waited  too  many  years  to  feel  impatient.  Au- 
relia was,  of  course,  absorbed  in  Daphne.  It  was  natural 
that  she  should  not  write.  That  he  was  glad  she  did  not 
write,  that  he  not  merely  endured  postponement  cheerfully, 
but  was  actually  grateful  for  it,  Hugh  was  too  little  versed 
in  reading  his  own  mental  processes  to  admit;  far  less  did 
he  draw  the  true  inference  from  them.  In  the  middle  of  Feb- 
ruary there  came  an  opportunity  to  get  home  for  a  day  or 
two,  but  he  stood  aside  in  favour  of  some  one  else.  It  was 
natural  to  him  to  stand  aside  in  favour  of  some  one  else,  to 
feel  that  he  could  wait  when  other  people  could  not;  but  the 
impulse  which  caused  him  to  urge  Emerson  to  go,  while  he 

390 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  391 

stayed,  was  not  only  kindness.  It  was  something  deeper, 
that  he  did  not  in  the  least  understand.  In  the  same  way 
he  hid  his  thoughts  about  Aurelia,  about  their  future,  deep 
in  his  heart;  overlaid  them  with  the  urgencies  of  day  to  day. 
She  coloured  all  his  inner  life  and  filled  it  with  dreams,  but 
in  those  dreams  she  was  as  she  had  been  in  the  past,  not  as 
she  might  be  in  the  future.  And  he  hardly  thought  of  Daphne. 
It  distressed  him  to  think  how  much  pain  the  severance  of 
her  engagement  must  cost  her,  but  in  itself  he  was  glad 
of  it.  The  reasons  why  it  had  happened  he  did  not 
try  to  unravel,  nor  what  its  effect  might  be  on  his  relations  to 
her  mother. 

Not  until  he  was  sitting  in  the  caxi  that  carried  him  Tem- 
plewards  did  it  occur  to  Hugh  that  the  first  person 
he  should  see  would,  of  course,  be  Nigel.  He  had  given 
no  warning  of  return;  he  seldom  wrote  to  Nigel  and  had  had 
no  inclination  to  do  so,  after  what  had  happened.  Prac- 
tically no  London  news,  of  any  sort,  had  reached  him, 
save  what  could  be  gleaned  from  an  occasional  English 
newspaper;  very  occasional,  for  all  the  people  in  the 
hospital  with  whom  he  had  been  working  were  French, 
and  all,  like  himself,  absorbed  in  the  atmosphere  of  war.  There 
was  actually  no  time  for  talking,  except  about  the  business  in 
hand;  at  night  one  dropped  asleep,  dead  tired. 

London  looked  strange,  strange  because  so  little  changed. 
But  it  brought  back  to  him  with  a  rush  all  the  life 
that  had  been  interrupted,  the  life  that  it  seemed  in- 
credible one  should  ever  resume.  Was  Aurelia  in  town 
still?  What  was  Daphne  doing?  Hugh  smiled  a  little 
as  he  asked  himself  whether  he  could  inquire  of  Nigel. 
Probably  he  could.  It  would  certainly  be  Nigel's  idea 
to  establish  a  charming  friendship  on  the  ruins  of  a 
defeated  love.  Nigel's  idea,  yes;  but  would  it  be  Daphne's? 
As  he  put  himself  the  question  Hugh  realised  how  little  he 
knew  of  what  had,  between  them,  really  happened.  It  was 
hardly  conceivable  that  any  one  so  much  in  love  as  Daphne, 
should  have  been  forced  to  see  Nigel  as  he  was.  She  was 
too  young,  surely,  to  read  the  writing  on  that  wall.  Yet  it 


392  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

seemed  almost  equally  improbable  that  Nigel  had  actually 
done  anything  that  could  afford,  to  any  outside  observer, 
a  reasonable  excuse  for  breaking  the  engagement.  The  nearer 
one  got  to  it,  the  more  puzzling  it  all  was. 

As  he  climbed  up  the  long,  dark,  uneven  stairs,  his  heavy 
bag  in  one  hand  and  a  khaki  overcoat,  far  too  hot  for  the 
mild  day,  over  the  other  arm,  Hugh  remembered  that  Nigel 
had  been  talking,  three  months  ago,  of  going  out  to  France. 
Perhaps  he  had  carried  out  that  intention.  But  Annie,  when 
she  opened  the  door,  told  him  that  Mr.  Strode  was  at 
home,  and  had  just  come  in.  Hugh  paused  on  the  thresh- 
old of  the  sitting-room,  whence  he  could  hear  the  rattle 
of  a  teacup;  then  turned  into  his  bedroom,  to  divest 
himself  of  the  lieutenant's  uniform  he  hated,  and  resume  the 
garb  of  ordinary  life. 

When  he  entered  the  living-room,  his  own  tea  awaited 
him  on  the  table  with  a  pile  of  letters  arranged  beside  it.  Nigel 
reclined  in  the  deep  chair  by  the  fire,  a  cigarette  between  his 
lips,  a  review  in  his  hand. 

"Well,  Nigel,"  he  said.  "How  are  you?  You  look  much 
as  usual." 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  the  other  replied,  laying  down  his 
review.  "Nothing  ever  happens  to  me." 

His  voice  had  a  hint  of  peevishness.  Hugh,  turning  over 
his  letters,  looked  at  him  as  he  lay  extended,  one  slim  foot 
stretched  out  to  the  fire,  and  smiled  a  little  bitterly  to  him- 
self. Nigel  certainly  was  not  changed.  He  was  just  where 
he  had  been.  Whatever  had  happened  had  clearly,  as  he 
himself  admitted,  not  happened  to  him.  He  was  indeed, 
of  them  all,  the  one  man  to  whom  nothing  had  happened, 
nothing  could  happen.  Hugh  poured  himself  out  a  cup  of  tea 
and  sat  down. 

"I'm  thinking  of  applying  for  a  commission,"  said 
Nigel,  after  a  pause,  in  which  neither  seemed  to  find  any- 
thing to  say.  "Davis  has  got  back  into  the  saddle  now,  you 
see." 

"The  New  World  can  spare  you,  you  mean?" 

"Oh,    heavens,    yes.      The    New    World    doesn't    matter 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  393 

that!"  Nigel  snapped  his  fingers  contemptuously.  "I  must 
do  something.  Every  one  else  has  disappeared.  There's 
nothing  to  do  in  London.  .  .  .  I'm  bored  to  death  here." 

Hugh  stared  at  him  for  a  moment.  Nigel  felt  his  gaze 
and  resented  it. 

"Well?"  he  said  sharply. 

"I'm  sorry  for  you,  I  think,"  said  Hugh  slowly. 

Nigel  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Oh,  stow  it,  Hugh.     Not  you  too." 

"Too?    Who  else  is  sorry  for  you?" 

Nigel  met  his  eyes  for  an  instant,  then  turned  away  with 
a  short  laugh. 

"You'll  never  guess,  I  hope,"  he  said. 

Hugh  was  lighting  a  pipe.  The  match  cast  a  strong  light 
on  his  lined  face.  Outside,  the  day  was  thickening  to  dusk 
He  shook  his  head. 

"I  might;  but  it  would  probably  be  unwise." 

Nigel  stood  at  the  window,  staring  down  into  the  bare 
branches  of  the  plane  tree.  When  he  spoke  it  was  without 
turning  round. 

"Daphne  Leonard." 

Hugh  opened  his  lips. 

"Daphne?    Have  you  seen  her,  then?" 

Nigel  came  towards  the  fire. 

"I  went  to  see  her  one  day  last  week." 

"Then  she's  not  gone  to  Serbia?" 

"  No.     Was  she  thinking  of  going?    She  seemed  very  busy." 

"I'm  glad,"  said  Hugh  thoughtfully,  more  to  himself 
than  to  Nigel.  "I  thought  she  wouldn't.  She's  too  strong 
to  do  things  like  that." 

Nigel  heard  his  muttered  comment. 

"Strong?"  he  said  quickly.     "Yes,  she  is  strong." 

Hugh  stared  into  the  fire  for  some  time.  It  grew  darker 
in  the  room.  A  vigorous  poke  at  the  big  lump  set  the  flames 
leaping  and  crackling,  and  produced  a  great  glow  of 
light. 

"Why  did  you  go  to  see  her,  after  so  long?  I  suppose 
you  hadn't  seen  her  .  .  .  since?" 


394  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

Nigel  walked  up  and  down  restlessly. 

"I  don't  know  really.  I  wanted  to  put  things  straight. 
It  occurred  to  me,  thinking  it  all  over,  that  I  ought  to 
go  and  say  something  .  .  .  put  things  on  a  decent  footing 
somehow.  We  parted  very  .  .  .  very  abruptly,  you  see.  So 
I  went." 

He  paused.  Then  as  Hugh  made  no  comment,  he  con- 
tinued. 

"I  asked  her  to  forgive  me." 

Hugh  gave  a  sudden  laugh. 

"Really,  Nigel,  you're  wonderful.  .  .  .  And  did  she?" 

'I  don't  see  anything  to  laugh  at  in  it.  ...  No. 
She  said  she  couldn't.  'I  can't  get  used  to  you,  any 
more  than  I  can  get  used  to  the  war,'  she  said.  She  seemed 
to  see  some  connection,  but  what  it  is  I  haven't  the  least 
idea." 

"And  yet  she  is  sorry  for  you.  Did  she  tell  you  that, 
too?" 

Hugh  felt  that  Nigel  for  some  reason  wanted  to  explain 
it  all,  though  his  impulse,  either  in  going  to  see  Daphne,  or 
in  desiring  to  speak  of  it,  remained  incomprehensible.  It 
all  threw  a  strange  light  on  the  man,  more  light  than  Hugh 
could  take  in. 

"Yes,"  Nigel  went  on  meditatively.  "She  stood  there, 
looking  ten  thousand  miles  away,  and  yet,  somehow,  not 
dim.  She  gave  me  the  feeling,  I  can't  explain  it  to  you,  that 
it  was  I  who  was  dim  and  far  away,  while  she  was  in  a  clear 
light,  awfully  alive,  and,  as  you  said,  strong.  .  .  .  And  she 
looked  beautiful.  I  used  not  to  think  her  so  at  all, 
except  at  moments;  but  that  afternoon  she  was.  I  didn't 
understand  her  in  the  least;  but  what  she  said  was  that 
she  was  inside  and  I  was  outside — something,  and  there- 
fore she  was  sorry  for  me.  Do  you  understand  it,  Hugh?" 
He  turned  suddenly  on  his  friend.  Hugh  was  silent  for  a 
long  time,  then  looking  at  him  slowly,  he  said — 

"Yes.  I  think  so.  I  can  guess  at  what  she  means.  .  .  . 
You  don't  know,  Nigel,  what  you  have  made  her  suffer." 

Nigel  winced. 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  395 

"That  would  make  me  sorry  for  her,  surely.  .  .  .  That's 
what  I  wanted  her  to  forgive  me  for." 

Hugh  shook  his  head.    "No,"  was  all  he  said. 

Nigel  sighed  wearily. 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  repeated. 

"No."  Hugh  was  looking  away  from  him  now,  up  to  the 
Japanese  embroidery  over  the  mantelpiece,  where,  nearly  a 
year  ago,  he  had  placed  it.  "Of  course  you  don't.  .  .  .  That's 
why  it  has  all  happened." 

Hugh  returned  to  his  letters,  and  Nigel  after  a  few  mo- 
ments left  the  room.  There  was  nothing  in  any  of  them, 
nothing  that  mattered,  or  could  not  wait  for  another  three 
months,  if  necessary.  Hugh  sat  on,  deep  in  thought,  with 
the  envelopes  lying  round  him  where  he  had  thrown  them 
untidily  on  the  floor,  until  roused  by  Annie,  who  came  in  to 
ask  whether  he  should  be  in  to  dinner.  Mr.  Strode  had  gone 
out,  and  had  left  a  message  that  he  was  going  away  for  the 
week-end. 

"Was  he  going  to  Tenacre?"  Hugh  asked 

Annie  thought  so,  but  was  not  quite  sure.  A  place  in 
Sussex  where  he  often  went,  she  knew. 

Hugh  drew  the  telephone  towards  him.  Daphne  had 
been  at  the  flat  last  week.  Mrs.  Leonard  might  be  there 
now,  unless  she  had,  as  he  feared,  gone  away  for  Easter.  The 
usual  pause  ensued,  followed  by  an  ominous  buzz;  then 
through  the  buzz  a  voice  came,  a  voice  for  him,  like  no 
other. 

"Aurelia?  Yes.  This  is  Hugh.  Just  back.  May  I  come 
round  to  see  you?" 

"Yes,  do.  I  want  very  much  to  see  you.  Daphne  has 
gone  down  to  Wending  End  with  Jane — Jane  Delahaye; 
I'm  going  to-morrow.  We  want  you  to  come  too.  Yes,  come 
as  soon  as  you  can,  then  we  can  arrange  about  to-morrow." 

Hugh  hung  up  the  receiver,  his  heart  beating  fast.  Ar- 
range about  to-morrow?  Yes,  and  about  much  more. 
Aurelia  had  spoken  as  if  there  were  no  more  than  that,  but 
only  because  there  were  things  one  could  not  bear  to 
touch  on  the  telephone.  Hugh  laughed  at  himself,  but 


396  DEAD   YESTERDAY 

his  heart  continued  to  thump  so  that  he  could  do  poor 
justice  to  Annie's  dinner,  pay  scant  attention  to  all  she  had  to 
tell  him  of  what  had  occurred  in  his  absence.  If  he  could 
neither  eat  nor  talk,  still  less  could  he  think. 

He  did  not  think  at  all  as  he  made  his  way  westward; 
and  the  sight  of  Aurelia  only  proved  to  him  that,  if  it  had 
been  difficult  in  absence  to  conceive  the  terms  of  a  new  re- 
lationship, it  was  impossible  with  her  before  his  eyes.  She 
was  sitting  before  the  fire,  her  hands  folded  on  her  lap  in 
an  idleness  most  unusual  with  her,  and  as  she  turned  her 
grave  clear  eyes  to  greet  him,  Hugh  suddenly  felt  that  it 
was  absurd  to  want  more.  How  could  any  promised  near- 
ness bring  her  nearer  than  she  was,  always  had  been?  He 
had  almost  a  gesture  of  deprecation  as  he  took  her  hand  and 
raised  it  to  his  lips,  as  if  he  wanted  actually  to  hold  her  off, 
not  draw  her  near.  This  action,  unconscious,  instinctive, 
spoke  him  more  truly  than  any  words  he  could  have  found, 
for  it  corresponded  to  that  deep  holding  back  within 
himself  which  he  could  not  have  admitted,  because  he 
did  not  know  it  for  what  it  was.  But  Aurelia,  he  felt, 
understood  it  all.  Understood,  as  she  had  always  done, 
far  more  than  he  could  himself.  The  eyes  that  rested 
on  his  face,  that  met  his  in  a  long  look,  were  not  the 
eyes  she  had  given  him  for  an  instant  at  Wending  End; 
but  they  were  the  eyes  of  the  Aurelia  he  had  worshipped 
from  afar,  and  not  less  dear  than  those  other  unfamiliar,  almost 
frightening  ones. 

He  sat  down  beside  her,  and  for  a  moment  nothing  was 
said.  Hugh  hardly  wanted  anything  said.  To  sit  thus  with 
Aurelia,  if  it  dissipated  his  excitement  and  stilled  the 
beating  of  his  heart,  diffused  all  through  him  a  deep 
and  silent  satisfaction.  He  was  with  her;  he  could  look 
at  her,  beautiful  and  soothing  to  the  eye  in  her  white 
dress,  and  feel  a  profound  tie  between  them  in  the  very 
fact  that  they  could  thus  sit  silent,  even  at  such  a  moment, 
without  embarrassment. 

At  such  a  moment!  It  brought  him  back,  the  phrase,  as 
it  crossed  his  mind.  What  moment  was  it? 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  397 

Aurelia  seemed  to  feel  the  question,  for  she  moved  a  little, 
and  turned  to  look  more  directly  at  him. 

"Yes,  Hugh,"  she  said,  as  though  in  answer  to  some- 
thing he  had  said,  though  he  had  spoken  no  word.  "I  be- 
lieve you  know  what  I  am  going  to  say.  Anyhow,  I  am  going 
to  say  it,  and  trust  to  you  to  understand.  No  one 
else  in  the  world  could  understand;  but  you  will,  I  think. 
Daphne,  perhaps.  It's  Daphne,  you  know,  who  has 
helped  me  to  it;  and  if  I  can't  make  it  clear  to  you,  I  believe 
she  may." 

She  paused.  Hugh  only  looked  at  her.  As  he  looked 
he  had  an  odd  sensation,  as  if  something  rose,  fluttered,  touched 
him  with  its  wings,  and  flew  away.  He  could  not  have  de- 
scribed it  more  nearly.  It  was  impalpable,  but  he  felt  it; 
and  his  feeling  found  involuntary  expression  in  a  deep  sigh. 
Aurelia  was  staring  into  the  fire,  but  she  caught  the  sound 
and  turned. 

"I'm  not  going  to  pretend  with  you,  Hugh,  or  speak 
in  parables.  I  can't  do  what  I  thought  I  could  three 
months  ago,  when  you  spoke  to  me  down  at  Wending 
End." 

Hugh  did  not  start  or  turn.  He  only  looked  at  her,  and 
waited.  He  had  no  words  ready  in  which  to  cry  out  against 
what  she  said,  or  say  it  must  not  be.  Pain  kept  him  silent, 
pain  and  his  profound  trust  in  her  truth.  Before  his  eyes 
the  golden  mists  in  which  he  had  moved  for  three  months 
in  blissful  vague  unconsciousness  were  parting;  and  he  could 
only  watch  them  go,  silently,  swiftly,  as  the  mists  of  an  Oc- 
tober morning  before  the  sun.  They  fled  away;  he  had  no 
power  to  stay  them. 

"When  you  spoke  to  me,  Hugh,  something  answered," 
Aurelia  went  on,  in  her  deep  soft  voice.  "But  I  know  now 
what  it  was.  I  didn't  then.  I  didn't  realise  that  I,  too,  was 
infected  with  the  poison  that's  all  around  us.  When 
you  said  then  that  there  was  nothing  left  but  personal 
happiness,  I  agreed;  I  felt  I  wanted  to  snatch  at  it 
and  get  away  from  the  agony  of  sight.  But  I  was  wrong. 
Wrong  not  only  because  I  couldn't  do  it,  but  because 


398  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

it  isn't,  for  me  or  for  you,  Hugh,  the  right  thing  to 
do." 

"When  you  say  you  couldn't  do  it" — Hugh  looked  up, 
raising  his  face  which  had  been  buried  in  his  hands — "you 
mean" — he  hesitated  a  moment — "you  mean  you  don't  love 
me?" 

Aurelia  looked  very  sadly  at  his  bowed  head. 

"Ah!"  he  cried.  "Don't  mind  saying  it.  I  don't  de- 
serve that  you  should  love  me.  Even  then  I  could  hardly 
believe  it." 

Aurelia  leaned  forward  and  laid  her  hand  over  his,  but 
for  a  moment  she  said  nothing,  nor  did  he.  Hugh  understood, 
or  thought  he  understood,  the  meaning  of  her  silence;  but  it 
wrung  from  him  a  sudden  groan. 

"Can  the  past  never  die?"  he  cried  bitterly. 

Aurelia  got  up  and  moved  across  the  room.  Her  hands 
were  locked  together  and  her  face  drawn  with  pain.  She 
turned  once  or  twice  round  the  narrow  space  and  then  came 
back  to  her  seat.  Hugh  had  not  been  watching  her,  his  thoughts 
were  driven  back  again  to  the  ignoble  darkness  of  his 
failure. 

"What  is  the  past?"  her  voice  broke  in  upon  him.  He 
made  a  quick  movement,  as  if  to  wave  it  aside,  but  she  went 
on.  "It's  strange  how  long  it  takes  one  to  answer  that  ques- 
tion truly." 

Hugh  groaned. 

"I  can  answer  it  truly  enough,  I  think,"  he  said. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Perhaps.  But  I  did  not,  not  till  a  very  short  time  ago. 
.  .  .  You  say  I  don't  love  you,  Hugh.  In  a  sense 
it's  true.  You  are,  you  always  will  be,  dearer  to  me  and  nearer 
than  any  one  in  the  world,  except  Daphne.  Your  loy- 
alty, your  truth,  your  love  for  me."  Her  voice  faltered, 
but  she  went  on.  "Ah,  dear  Hugh,  don't  think  I  don't  feel 
it  ...  they  are  the  best  things  I  have.  But  beyond  friend- 
ship, even  the  nearest,  there  is  something  else.  And 
that  I  can't  give  you.  I  haven't  got  it  to  give.  For 
a  moment  I  thought  I  had,  but  I  was  wrong.  And 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  399 

now  I  know  why,  and  I  want  to  tell  you,  if  you  can 
bear  it." 

Hugh  looked  up.  His  face  was  haggard,  but  his  eyes  met 
hers.  In  them  there  was  a  tenderness  that  even  at  that  mo- 
ment seemed  to  him  beautiful,  and  that,  later,  lived  in  his 
memory  like  balm. 

"Yes.     Go  on,"  he  said. 

"I  loved  my  husband.  That  was  my  excuse;  it  is  also 
my  condemnation.  It  is  what  I'm  paying  for  now;  and,  be- 
cause life  in  this  is  very  cruel,  you  are  paying  for  me,  Hugh. 
It  is  my  punishment  that  you  have  to  pay.  .  .  .  Because 
it  isn't  enough  to  love  a  person,  you  must  see  them  too.  I 
never  saw  Richard,  or  myself,  or  our  life.  I  fed  my- 
self with  lies,  and  called  the  degradation  duty.  ...  I 
am  now  what  I  let  Richard  make  me.  .  .  .  Daphne, 
yes,  Daphne  has  made  it  clear  to  me,  because  she  has 
done  what  I  couldn't  do.  She  has  refused  to  let  Nigel  make 
her  life  a  lie." 

Hugh  listened,  and  the  words  fell  upon  his  heart  like 
stones  and  lay  there.  It  was  true,  he  knew,  what  she 
said;  he  could  not  refute  it.  Had  he  not  said  some- 
thing of  this  to  Daphne,  even  in  December,  presented 
the  data,  without  drawing  the  inference?  Yet  the  in- 
ference was  implicit  in  the  data;  he  believed  what  Aurelia  said 
to  him. 

"That  was  why,"  Aurelia  went  on,  "all  those  years  ago, 
when  you  went  away  instead  of  calling  to  me,  deep  down 
I  was  glad.  I  didn't  know  it;  I  lay  and  wept  and  longed  to 
die.  But  I  was  almost  glad  you  had  failed  me  because  your 
failure  hid  the  worse  failure — my  own.  For  I  could  never 
have  done  it.  Never.  Never.  Never.  I  know  now.  That's 
why  I  can't  do  it  now." 

Hugh  still  said  nothing;  he  was  conscious  of  nothing  but 
an  overwhelming,  comprehending  pain,  a  pain  much  larger 
than  any  of  his  own,  in  which  his  own  was  merged  and  dis- 
appeared. What  was  it,  the  pang  he  suffered  now,  in  com- 
parison with  what  Aurelia  had  endured?  His  own  pain  seemed 
to  gather  itself  up  into  a  heartrending  pity  for  her, 


400  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

a  pity  that  held  him  dumb.  The  most  poignant  ele- 
ment in  what  he  endured  was  his  helplessness;  he  could 
do  nothing  with  his  pity,  could  in  no  way,  it  seemed, 
reach  or  succour  her.  He  could  only  look  on;  it  was 
all  he  had  ever  been  able  to  do.  He  could  not  even  tell  her 
what  he  felt — that  his  sorrow  for  himself  was  lost,  disap- 
peared, in  his  sorrow  for  her. 

"You  must  come  down  to  Wending  End  and  talk  to 
Daphne,"  Aurelia  spoke  again  after  a  long  silence.  "She  will 
help  you.  She  will  make  you  understand." 

Hugh  got  up. 

"Yes,"  he  said  vaguely,  looking  about  the  familiar  room 
as  if  he  had  never  seen  it  before.  His  eyes  avoided  Aurelia's 
face;  he  felt  he  could  not  trust  himself  to  look  at  her,  nor  his 
voice  in  speaking.  If,  as  he  feared,  she  were  to  say  anything 
more  which  suggested  sorrow  for  him,  he  should  break  down. 
To  avoid  that  he  must  get  away  quickly.  Aurelia  seemed  to 
divine  his  intention. 

"Come  down  soon,"  she  said.  "You  will,  won't 
you?"  Her  voice  had  an  accent  of  appeal,  almost  as  if  she 
expected  a  refusal.  Hugh  nodded,  and  began  to  move  to 
the  door.  Aurelia  held  out  her  hand  without  another 
word;  he  took  it,  held  it  for  a  moment  and  pressed  it  to  his 
lips. 

Aurelia,  after  the  door  had  closed  behind  him,  stood 
looking  after  him,  and  at  her  hand  on  which  something  glis- 
tened. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-TWO 

MORE  than  a  week  passed,  in  which  Hugh  did  noth- 
ing, gave  no  sign.  Then,  late  one  afternoon,  as  he 
came  out  of  the  War  Office,  he  found  his  way  across 
to  the  Strand,  blocked  by  an  apparently  endless  stream  of 
men  in  khaki,  returning,  he  supposed,  from  a  route  march. 
He  stood  still  where  he  was,  waiting  for  them  to  pass. 
They  looked  hot,  for  the  day  had  been  mild  and  they 
were  loaded  with  heavy  accoutrements,  but  their  faces 
for  the  most  part  seemed  cheerful  and  apathetic.  He 
glanced  round  at  the  people  standing  by  him  on  the 
pavement;  they  were  simply  waiting,  like  himself,  for 
the  men  to  pass.  Their  faces  showed  no  more  interest 
than,  he  supposed,  his  own  did;  for  he  felt  none,  merely  an 
impatience  to  get  on  his  way.  On  the  'buses,  held  up 
by  the  burly  policemen,  men  were  reading  the  evening 
papers,  or  looking  vaguely  about  them;  no  one  was 
standing  up  or  waving  to  the  soldiers,  as  people  used  to  do 
in  the  early  days  of  the  war.  Soldiers  marching  in 
the  streets  had  grown  as  normal  a  part  of  the  daily  life 
of  London  as  the  stream  of  common  traffic,  and  meant  noth- 
ing more.  London  absorbed  and  accepted  them,  as 
it  absorbed  and  accepted  all  the  other  horrors  that  un- 
derlay its  daily  life  of  jollity  and  dreams,  noise  and 
weariness. 

At  last  the  stream  passed,  the  policeman  stepped  aside, 
'buses,  carts  and  taxis  swept  along,  and  Hugh  made  his  way 
across  to  the  corner  of  Northumberland  Avenue.  On  a  sud- 
den impulse  he  turned  that  way,  deciding  to  walk  Temple- 

401 


402  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

wards  along  the  Embankment,  feeling  that  he  could  not  face 
the  Strand.  It  was  growing  dark;  the  sky  was  thickening 
from  pale  to  deepest  blue,  and  over  it  the  long  swords  of  the 
searchlights  flashed  and  crossed.  The  river  was  still 
and  silent,  only  a  few  dim  lights  reflected  in  its  sur- 
face on  the  farther  bank.  Hugh  walked  along  very 
slowly,  aware  at  first  of  nothing  but  the  compelling 
beauty  of  it  all.  Gradually  the  darkness  gathered,  till  Cleo- 
patra's Needle  and  the  sleeping  sphinx  were  hardly  dis- 
cernible against  the  sky,  save  where  a  sudden  illumi- 
nation lit  them,  sombre  and  menacing.  Then  a  malign 
smile  seemed  to  flicker  over  the  graven  mouth  of  cap- 
tive Egypt,  as  if  she  understood  secrets  that  made  ab- 
surd her  imprisonment  under  the  damp  skies  that  vainly 
rotted  and  consumed  her  surface. 

Hugh's  steps  slackened  and  stopped;  he  leaned  over  the 
parapet,  and  stood  looking  down  into  the  river-bed.  Lon- 
don was  all  round  him;  its  life  made  the  dull  roar  that  kept 
his  thoughts  so  blind.  As  he  stood  and  felt  it  he  was  invaded 
by  a  vast  sense  of  pity;  pity  not  for  himself,  not,  certainly, 
for  Aurelia,  but  for  London,  for  humanity.  He  thought 
of  the  people  who  had  stood  on  the  kerb  with  him  and 
watched  the  soldiers,  and  felt  again  their  apathy  and 
his  own;  but  felt  it  not,  as  so  often  before,  with  futile 
anger,  but  with  compassion.  To  feel  as  little  as  they 
all  did,  to  be  so  dumb,  so  blind,  so  near  the  vegetables 
and  the  stones,  when  all  this — he  could  not  stay  to 
find  any  more  adequate  expression  for  it — was  going 
on,  when  everything  was  falling  in  ruins  round  them 
and  they  themselves  were,  by  their  very  immobility,  the 
authors  of  that  ruin — nothing,  surely,  could  be  so  terri- 
ble, so  pitiable  as  that,  not  even  war.  He  was  one 
of  them,  he  was  like  them  in  their  immobility  and  their  ap- 
athy. He  stood  still  and  let  things  happen;  he  held  the  golden 
apple  in  his  hands,  and  let  it  fall,  and  went  on  as  if 
nothing  had  occurred.  Worse  than  that,  he  was  almost 
glad  to  find  it  gone,  so  little  had  he  known  what  to 
do  with  it,  so  little  had  he  ever  had  it  at  all.  His  tragedy 


DEAD    YESTERDAY 

was  not  that  he  disputed  what  Aurelia  had  done,  but  that 
he  accepted  it,  and  knew  that  she  was  right.  He  could  not 
have  taken  what  she  would  not  give.  Suddenly  a  ques- 
tion flashed  across  him;  was  he,  after  all,  just  like  Nigel? 
He  smiled  a  little  ruefully  as  he  looked  at  it  and  stared  down 
into  the  turbid  water.  No;  at  least  he  was  not  like 
Nigel,  though  Nigel  certainly,  and  nearly  every  one 
else  he  knew  probably,  would  see  no  difference.  But 
there  was  a  difference,  and  it  was  one  of  those  differ- 
ences which  one  lived  and  grew  older  in  order  to  be  able  to 
see.  He  knew  what  had  happened  to  him,  as  Nigel  never 
would;  and  he  knew  what  he  had  lost  and  what  he  had  left. 
Aurelia  would  not  marry  him,  and  she  was  right;  but 
Aurelia  was  there  and  their  friendship,  and  he  was  going  down 
to  Wending  End  no  later  than  to-morrow.  He  was  a  fool,  he 
told  himself  as  he  walked  quickly  on,  to  have  waited  already 
so  long. 

Yes,  decidedly  he  was  a  fool,  Hugh  reiterated,  as  he  walked 
up  from  the  station.  For  it  was  spring,  and  spring  at  Wend- 
ing End  was  an  exquisite  thing,  that  made  all  misery,  even 
the  direst,  seem  transient  and  endurable.  The  fields  were 
no  longer  brown,  they  were  purple,  and  the  hedges  that  di- 
vided them  already  touched  with  green.  Against  the 
chequered  blue  and  white  of  the  sky  the  bursting  buds 
were  golden  in  the  sun.  Birds  sang  everywhere,  and 
the  sweetness  of  the  air  touched  Hugh's  face  like  a 
caress.  Every  year  the  earth  was  thus  miraculously 
renewed.  Every  year  it  recklessly  poured  out  its  beau- 
ties, burned  them  passionately  without  regret  in  the 
fires  of  autumn,  saw  them  die  and  moulder  under  rain 
and  frost,  and  waited,  because  it  knew  that  spring  returned. 
And  was  it  not  the  same  with  the  slower,  more  painful  life 
of  man?  Again  and  again  the  laborious  beauty  of  the  world 
had  destroyed  itself  by  war;  but  war  had  never  killed  the 
immortal  striving  for  perfect  expression  that  man  carried  in 
his  deepest  heart.  To  the  eyes  of  any  one  generation,  all  might 
seem  to  be  lost;  but  it  was  not.  Unhappy  those  whose  brief 


404  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

time  of  suffering  and  struggle  coincided  with  the  impulse  to 
destroy;  but  beyond  their  winter  the  spring  brooded,  invisible 
but  sure. 

The  road  swerved  quickly  round,  and  the  orchard  was 
before  him,  a  shimmer  of  white,  a  waft  of  intoxicating  per- 
fume and  promise.  Hugh  went  in  at  the  gate,  and  passing 
round  the  house  by  the  little  tiled  path  on  either  side  of  which 
Aurelia's  bulbs  stood  up  proudly,  crossed  the  grass  that  lay 
between  him  and  the  cherry  trees.  Under  the  biggest  cherry 
tree  Mrs.  Leonard,  wrapped  in  her  familiar  white  shawl,  was 
sitting  in  the  sun.  On  the  grass  beside  her,  books  and  papers 
lay  unheeded. 

At  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  she  looked  up. 

"Ah,  Hugh!"  she  smiled  at  him.  "Here  you  are,  at  last. 
I  knew  that  you  would  come." 

Hugh  sat  down  beside  her. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "Of  course  I  have  come.  .  .  .  I'm  not 
sure  that  I  agree,"  he  smiled  in  his  turn,  "but  I  couldn't 
stay  away.  .  .  .  Hullo,  what's  that  you've  got?"  He  saw 
that  the  white  object  on  Aurelia's  knee  was  not  needlework, 
but  a  sleeping  child. 

"It's  my  godchild,  Jane  Delahaye's  baby.  Jane's  down 
here  with  us.  She  and  Daphne  are  great  friends  now,  though 
so  different." 

Hugh  lifted  the  fine  veil  that  covered  the  tiny  face  and 
looked  at  it  for  a  few  moments.  Then  he  said — 

"How  is  Daphne?" 

Mrs.  Leonard  did  not  at  once  reply;  she,  too,  was  watch- 
ing the  baby's  face.  Then,  as  she  covered  it  gently,  she 
said — 

"You  will  see.  Daphne  will  help  you,  Hugh,  if  you  need 
it,  which,  as  a  matter  of  fact" — she  glanced  up  at  him — 
"I  rather  doubt.  It's  only  your  old  self -depreciation.  But 
you  must  talk  to  Daphne." 

Across  the  grass  long  shadows  began  to  fall,  and  as  the 
sun  sloped  westwards  its  beams  touched  the  snowy  flowers 
with  fire.  Hugh  continued  to  say  nothing,  but  he  lit 
his  pipe.  Through  the  trees  Jane  Delahaye  came  to 


DEAD    YESTERDAY  405 

wards  them.  Her  little  triangular  face  had  lost  some- 
thing of  its  soft  roundness,  and  her  small  mouth  was  set  in 
firmer  lines,  but  she  still  had  her  charming,  uncertain 
smile,  and  when  she  smiled  there  was  a  dimple  in  either 
cheek. 

"Time  for  baby's  bath,  isn't  it?"  she  said,  stooping  down 
to  the  tiny  bundle  on  Mrs.  Leonard's  knee  and  taking  it  ten- 
derly in  her  arms. 

"I  expect  so."  Aurelia  got  up.  "I  shall  come  in  with 
you.  I  can't  miss  a  bath.  .  .  .  You'll  find  Daphne  in  the 
orchard,  Hugh." 

Hugh  sat  on  for  a  few  moments  after  the  other  two  had 
gone  in  together.  Then,  knocking  out  his  pipe  against  his 
boot  and  putting  it  in  his  pocket,  he  rose  and  moved  slowly 
through  the  orchard.  The  branches  were  low  and  closely 
entangled  with  their  load  of  blossom,  and  he  made  his  way 
blindly  through  the  long  grass. 

"Oh,  Hugh!  You're  treading  on  the  flowers!"  A  voice 
came  to  him  through  the  trees.  He  looked  up.  Daphne  stood 
in  front  of  him,  holding  out  her  hand.  Hugh  took  it, 
but  his  eyes  were  on  the  ground,  on  the  lovely  fragile 
thing  whose  stem  he  had  broken,  a  tall  narcissus.  Daphne 
bent  and  picked  it  up;  breaking  off  the  stalk  and  press- 
ing the  soft  petals  to  her  face,  she  inhaled  the  deli- 
cate perfume  for  a  moment,  then  held  the  flower  out  to  him. 

"Such  a  wonderful  scent,"  she  murmured.  "Like  some- 
thing dead  laid  up  in  lavender." 

Hugh  looked  at  her  as  he  took  the  narcissus  from  her  hand. 
Daphne  went  on — 

"Let  us  walk  to  the  edge  of  the  coppice,  there's  a  mar- 
vellous view.  Mother  will  be  busy  helping  Jane  to  put  Leonora 
to  bed." 

They  moved  on  side  by  side  under  the  blossom-laden 
trees,  more  widely  spaced  on  the  far  side  of  the  orchard.  A 
little  wind  stirring  them  gently  from  time  to  time  shook 
down  showers  of  white  petals,  that  fell  softly  on  their 
heads.  Hugh,  looking  at  Daphne,  saw  that  she  was 
smiling. 


406  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

"It's  beautiful,  isn't  it?"  she  said,  waving  her  hand  to 
take  in  all  the  white  wonder  around  and  above  them, 
the  blue  of  the  sky  overhead,  the  green  of  the  long  grass 
at  their  feet,  and  drawing  as  she  did  so  a  deep  breath,  as  if 
she  were  drinking  in  the  cool  air.  "Beautiful,  whatever 
is  happening.  Nothing  can  take  it  away."  She  paused. 
"Nothing  can  take  anything  real  away.  Only,  it  must  be 
real." 

Hugh  looked  at  her  still,  and  again  his  eyes  spoke  a  ques- 
tion he  dared  not  utter  in  words. 

"Yes,  I  was  thinking  of  Nigel,"  she  said.  Her  eyes  were 
on  the  trees,  but  Hugh  saw  a  little  quiver  of  her  closed  lips. 

"I  saw  him  the  other  day,"  he  said. 

Daphne  did  not  look  round. 

"He's  talking  of  going  to  France,"  Hugh  continued. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  as  if  more  were  to  follow.  But  Hugh 
had  no  more  to  offer.  There  was  a  pause.  Then  he  said 
slowly — 

"He  doesn't  understand." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Daphne,  as  if  that  were  obvious.  Then 
after  a  moment  she  added,  "Poor  Nigel!" 

Hugh  felt  something  strangely  like  a  sob  in  his  throat. 

"Daphne,"  he  said,  "do  you  still  care  for  him?" 

At  that  she  turned  her  head. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  answered.     "That  was  it." 

Hugh  said  no  more.  He  was  thinking.  They  passed 
through  the  little  leafless  wood  that  rose  steep  behind  the 
orchard  and  came  out  on  to  the  high  clearing  above  it,  from 
which  they  looked  down  to  the  long  sweep  of  the  valley,  in 
whose  cleft  the  road  ran  to  right  and  left. 

"You  know,"  Daphne  spoke  again,  "sometimes  all  that 
has  happened — to  me  and  Nigel,  I  mean — seems  trivial; 
trivial  to  mind  it  so  much,  in  the  midst  of  what's  going  on. 
But  really  it  is  all  part  of  the  same  thing.  I  can't  make  it 
clear,  perhaps,  but  as  I  see  it,  the  war  has  come  because  so 
many  people  are  like  Nigel.  .  .  .  He  can't  feel,  you  see,  and 
of  course  he  wants  to  feel;  and  so  must  grope  after 
things  and  seize  them  before  he  knows  where  they  are." 


DEAD   YESTERDAY  407 

She  paused.  "He  got  hold  of  me,  and  I  hurt  him".  And 
I  wouldn't  let  go,  because  I  loved  him,  and  love  seemed  a 
short  cut  to  everything.  And  I  didn't  know  where  I  was. 
Even  when  I  let  him  go  I  didn't  know  where  I  was.  I  only 
felt  I  couldn't  bear  what  was  coming." 

"What  was  coming?"  Hugh  repeated. 

"His  letting  me  go,  I  mean.  I  could  do  it;  I  couldn't 
have  it  done  to  me.  And  while  I  didn't  understand,  I  could 
do  nothing  but  stupidly  suffer.  But  now,  especially  since 
I've  been  so  much  with  Jane,  I  do  understand.  I  haven't 
stopped  caring — one  can't,  if  one  ever  has — but  I  see." 

She  ceased,  and  for  a  long  time  they  stood  side  by  side, 
their  eyes  on  the  prospect  before  them.  Hugh  was  filling 
up  the  gaps  in  what  she  had  said  to  him,  seeing  how  it  all 
fitted  in.  At  last  he  looked  again  at  Daphne.  She  was  look- 
ing out  to  where  beyond  the  farther  ridge,  above  the  wooded 
valley  with  its  dense  leafless  trees,  the  sun  was  beginning 
to  set  in  a  pale  glory.  Untinged  by  red  as  yet,  the  sky  shone 
with  a  pure  intensity  of  gathered  light.  That  same  light, 
that  seemed  only  the  clearer  and  stronger  from  its  colourless 
austerity,  was  reflected  in  the  girl's  wide-open  eyes.  Straight 
and  almost  stern  she  stood,  her  smooth  fair  hair  blown  back 
from  her  face,  her  lips  shut  in  a  firm  line,  her  profile  in  its 
strength  and  purity  reminding  Hugh,  as  it  had  often  done 
before,  of  that  of  some  Greek  urn-bearer.  For  a  moment 
he  seemed  to  see  her,  as  she  stood  looking  out,  not  only  at 
the  visible  scene  before  her  eyes,  but  at  the  vision  of  all  she 
had  learned  to  see  through  suffering,  as  the  type  of  a  new 
generation,  that  might  even  now  be  arising  out  of  ruinous 
war.  War  was  far  from  them  there,  but  to  his  ears,  and  he 
knew  to  hers,  the  valley  resounded  with  its  agony,  and  the 
pale  sun  hung  blood-red  over  devastated  and  corrupting  fields. 
Her  face  wore  a  look  he  had  seen  on  the  faces  of  one  or  two 
among  the  hundreds  of  men  who  had  come  back  from  the 
front.  Thousands  had  looked  at  the  anguish  and  degradation 
of  war.  One  or  two  had  seen.  What  they  had  seen  in  Flan- 
ders, in  Poland,  in  Serbia,  Daphne  had  seen  by  the  awful 
strength  of  her  love.  Events  exist  in  the  intensity  with  which 


408  DEAD    YESTERDAY 

the  individual  is  capable  of  receiving  them;  and  for  Daphne 
the  suffering  which  had  made  her  reject  Nigel  had  rent  the 
veil  of  illusion  from  end  to  end.  Hugh  understood  how  Nigel's 
facile  soul  had  shrivelled  up  in  the  white  blaze  of  a  passion 
such  as  hers,  pure  and  fierce  enough  to  deny  itself  happiness 
and  shut  the  door  on  hope.  Before  it  his  own  feeling  was  a 
rushlight  that  paled  and  trembled. 

"Do  you  know,  Daphne,"  he  said,  "I  cannot  pity 
you." 

"Pity  me?"  Daphne  lifted  her  head  with  a  movement 
that  was  not  without  its  hint  of  pride.  "Oh,  no.  .  .  .  Nor  I 
you,  Hugh." 

Their  eyes  met  on  that,  in  full  understanding.  Together 
they  walked  back.  On  the  edge  of  the  little  lawn  Aurelia 
stood;  she  had  just  come  out  of  the  house,  and  watched  them 
as  they  approached.  Hugh  paused  a  few  paces  from 
her. 

"Yes,  Aurelia,"  he  said.     "You  are  right." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  and  her  smile,  passing  from 
him  to  Daphne,  caressed  them  both  with  its  slow  ten- 
derness. 

"Daphne  has  made  you  see?" 

"No;  you  have  made  me  see.  Daphne  showed  me  that 
I  did  though  I  didn't  know  it." 

Aurelia  smiled  still. 

"Well,  we  won't  quarrel  about  that,"  she  said.  "Come  in, 
both  of  you.  The  baby's  in  bed,  and  supper  waiting." 

THE   END. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

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from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


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A     000102624     4 


